


Rolling in the Deep

by melody_in_time



Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Greg, Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Case Fic, Dom John, Dom Mycroft, Dom/sub, M/M, Omega Mycroft, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Sub Lestrade, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1420879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melody_in_time/pseuds/melody_in_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You had my heart inside of your hand, and you played it, to the beat</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! 
> 
> To those of you joining us for the first time, go back to Part I, because I promise Part III will NOT make any sense without reading the whole thing. For those who have been with me throughout the posting process, welcome to Part III of IV, Rolling in the Deep. Yes, as in the Adele song. Yes, that can be considered spoiler-y. In fact, you can blame the song for most of the angst you've already suffered through as it inspired an idea for a chapter, and I wrote 300,000 words to get there. Sorry about that. Just be glad I haven't got around to writing anything inspired by Kimbra's Good Intent into the story!
> 
> Like last time I'm going to put the warnings up front. All will be relevant at some point in the story, and I'll try and remember to highlight the major ones at the beginnings of the relevant chapters, but just like last time I'm not going to tell you whether they're a major or peripheral events, or whether they happen to our main characters or are relevant to a case/OC. If you have ANY concerns, please feel free to PM me on livejournal and I'm happy to provide one on one spoilers so people can decide in advance whether they want to read, or if they need to skip a particular chapter, etc. I'm going to put the link to my livejournal in the bottom comments. Right, warnings:
> 
> Non-con, Dub-con, BDSM, not particularly good practices for BDSM, unplanned pregnancy, abortion, kidnapping, torture, infidelity, biology, child abuse (past), emotional abuse, fertility/conception issues
> 
> That's all I can think of at the minute. If something comes up during a chapter that you think needs to be added, just let me know in the comments and I'll add it to the list. 
> 
> Those of you who have read before will know that I try to put up photos and visual references. I like to work from real life as much as possible, so Mycroft has a real title (though not it's actual holder's history!), and I regularly spend time stalking various actors on the internet to find pictures of them in outfits etc. that I think will be useful. There will also be pictures of rooms, backdrop scenes, etc. When I can, I'll try and link back to the original source of the image, but sometimes it's really old stuff I find on my hard drive and have long lost the link. Upfront disclaimer: NONE OF THE IMAGES ARE MINE. I am not artsy. Further, any images of people used are of random people google spat out when I typed in "Red hair, mid thirties" or the like. I do not know who they are, and even if I did I wouldn't put actual names etc on the pictures for privacy reasons. 
> 
> General disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but they aren't. Nor am I creative enough to have written the song that gave this instalment its title. That belongs to Adele, and whomever else had IP rights along side her. 
> 
> I'm going to aim for weekly updates on Sundays, but we'll have to see how we go with work etc as this one is not fully written like the last. I'm a little under half way through writing it, and so far am sticking quite well to my chapter schedule, so we should be looking at about 32 odd chapters. 
> 
> Heavy beginning there... if at any point during the story you feel like you all need a little fluff or a break from the angst, just let me know and I'll throw in some PWP and/or scenes with baby Ben. Certainly willing to alter things as people need.

The dark was an old friend in this – the most reliable sort of co-conspirator. London was never quiet, never quite black, but locked away with the curtains pulled tight on their urgent little world; it was as close to isolation and stillness as the city came.

No light was required; he’d filled his eyes with the feast laid out before him as he’d taken the lithe form over and over with whip and cock earlier that day. The night belonged to other senses than sight: the slick feel of sweat coated skin; the salty bitter taste of the same mixed with the evidence of previous activities; and above it all, the pungent heady call of Estrus

The Sub beneath him was struggling: struggling to fight the fatigue beginning to encroach after days of lust filled sex to sate his body One Last Time; struggling to keep his fingers, lovely long fingers, wrapped around the pillow rather than yank on the cuffs binding him there; struggling not to let more than a whimper escape that plush mouth.

“You are so beautiful like this.”

Nails dragged along skin leaving a light stinging trail that wouldn’t even turn red before it disappeared.

“Did you really think you could hide this? That you were beginning your cycle?”

Lips traced over bite marks he knew were littered across the delicate skin. His favourite spot at the juncture of the neck received a fresh anointment, and light though it was, the slight tang of blood let him know he’d reopened the earlier wound.

Some part of his mind was taking note for later, ensuring the taste would be remembered for treatment, but at that time he was far more bestially preoccupied with the taste of skin and sweat and pheromones, glorious pheromones, none of which were sufficiently polluted by the coppery tang to stop his enjoyment.

Nor was the implied pain stopping the Omega from enjoying it, head falling to the side, threat working in a low silent moan.

“You love this.” He dragged his nose over the skin, burying his face in the damp hair behind the Sub’s ear and breathing deeply. “You love my touch. You’d be yelling for it if you could.”

The ball gag didn’t stop all sound and there was a rumble that escaped its confines in agreement. Despite being restrained, the body did an excellent job of writing sexually under him, making its wishes clear.

“Such a good little slut, aren’t you?” Words he would never say outside of Estrus, outside this room, dropped easily from his tongue now. “So desperate for my knot. You’re gagging for it. Even with your pretty mouth full and stretched as it is, you can’t stay silent.

“What would you be saying if you could? Begging for it? Screaming? Whimpering as I split you open with it again?”

Even in the dark there was no doubting the way his words were greeted.

“Is this what you want?”

He lowered his body until the top of his cock, just teased against the loose fluttering opening. The body under him rolled, trying to lift itself and capture it, drawing him in. When the move failed, an angry whimper was forced around the gag and the Sub’s body moved forcefully again.

“So demanding.” He chuckled lightly, in the mood to be amused by the wilfulness.

Estrus had released its grip enough to return a small measure of teasing control after days of mindless rut and fuck, though not enough for the memory of this session, this glorious session to be retained.

“Is this what you want?” He let his body sway forward, tip just piercing the loose rim, way smoothed by all manner of fluids at this stage of the cycle.

The attempt to pull him deeper was a clear yes.

“Uh uh.” He scolded lightly, denying the move. “Not so easily. If you want this so much,” he ground against the Sub’s rim, “what will you give me for it?”

A plaintive whimper escaped the long throat and the glorious body thrashed in desperation beneath him.

“Behave.”

Beautiful obedience, given through free will, was such a precious gift and he was tempted, so tempted, to take him again just for the gift of that.

He resisted. Barely.

“Good.” He nipped lightly at the vast expanse of skin. “What will you give me for my knot? Your relief?”

The Omega held still and quiet, behaving as requested.

“What will you give me?” He repeated. “A child? I fuck you, knot you, flood you and you’ll carry me a child? How does that sound to you? Fair?”

His Sub held still, taut with the effort.

“Deal accepted.” He purred.

And thrust.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afternoon all!
> 
> Welcome to what is actual Chapter 1, if there were a provision for a little intro on AO3, but as there isn't, Chapter 2! Advanced warning, I seem to find countless typos in this chapter every time I re-read it, so please feel free to let me know when you find them and I'll edit them out. This still isn't beta'ed, so I can believe that there's a lot hidden away. 
> 
> Also, I need someone to do some French translations for me. Later on there's some need for it in the story, and my high school French is not going to be anything close to viable. Anyone feel like helping out, please just let me know. Probably best over on LJ or send me a PM there. Link should still be at the bottom (I hope). 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include discussions of fertility issues and pseudo science.

Greg sat at his desk resolutely digging away at the endless pile of paperwork. After twenty odd years on the force he would have sworn blind it multiplied every time he blinked, breeding in secret overnight. He doggedly signed his name on another form and stuck it in the appropriate internal mail envelope for SOCO, chucking it in in his out tray before reaching for the next.

That there was a lot of paperwork to be done was partly because there were no cases demanding his attention in the field, a sort of silver lining. There were smaller incidents being worked through, and evidence trickling in from various sources, but mostly it was small stuff that could be added to the picture from the office. The rest of it was court documents, joy of all joy, and like it or not those had to be done as a lot of them were close to trial date.

Peter/Jeremy Carson/Smith’s case wasn’t one of them. Child abusers didn’t last long in prison, even in remand, and once the Carsons’ acts and plans had become public knowledge…

Even in remand prison justice held sway and none of the three would be needing a trial before a court of law. The only judge they’d be seeing was whichever their belief system said they would, and Greg at least comforted himself with the idea that there was a very special circle of hell reserved for child molesters, rapists and abusers.

Last Greg had seen of the kid, Daniel, upon hearing the news that there would be no need for a trial, had whisked them out of the country for some desperately needed space while the media furore died down.

So instead of preparation for a massive media spectacle, Greg was mercifully left with equally important, but much less conspicuous cases. A new scandal had erupted in Parliament, taking with it all the reporters camped on his new doorstep, and Gregson had kept Mulgrave occupied long enough he hadn’t noticed Greg’s conspicuous absence. This was all making his life substantially easier, even if he did now owe Gregson big time.

That relief wasn’t the source of his glee fuelled dedication to paperwork though.

Two and a bit weeks. Finally, Ben was coming home, and Greg fully intended to knock off early so he could do one last check that everything was perfect before Mycroft arrived with him.

If he got through his mounds of self-replicating paperwork.

Which he would.

He’d covered for Whiting last weekend so he wasn’t scheduled for any new cases first off the rank, and had been hanging back in the evenings to clean up as much as possible, so once _this pile_ was gone he could leave and have all weekend with Mycroft and Ben, darling little Ben who he missed _so much_.

Just this pile. One more down, two more down, th-

The door to his office, left open in case he was needed, slammed shut hard enough it failed to latch, rebounding with a second bang against the glass wall. Greg started, pen flying out of his hand as his body flailed. It clattered against the cabinet before making its way to the floor via every propped open metallic drawer and finally rolling to a halt on the carpet.

Sherlock, who else, shoved the door again, this time forcing it to catch and stay shut.

Despite his dramatic entrance, Sherlock cut a pathetic figure, shoulders slumped with his fingers still restraining the door. There had been a rain shower sweep through earlier, a summer squall that hadn’t lasted a whole hour and a half, though some of it had been relatively heavy. Sherlock looked as though he’d been outside through the whole thing. The water dropped off the ends of his sodden curls and ran down his neck, invisible under his shirt collar and on the dark material of his suit.

The absence of the familiar Belstaff, set aside for summer, made him look younger and more fragile than usual, as did the lack of scarf. The desolate grey shirt didn’t help, emphasising how pale he was even with the slight summer tan. His collar, a stark black band on his neck, seemed dull and waterlogged from the rain, not the usual sleek statement it normally proclaimed.

“Sherlock, are you o-” Greg started to ask.

It was the wrong question. Quick as a snake and twice as dangerous, Sherlock was in front of Greg’s desk. If he’d been a cobra, his hood would have been flared menacingly.

“So is my brother speaking to you yet, or has he still tossed you over for someone more observant?” Sherlock hissed.

Greg swallowed and sat back. A personal attack first up, something Sherlock thought was a sore spot, something that _would_ have been a sore spot if Anthea hadn’t intervened, was trouble. Even worse, Sherlock was too preoccupied with his own need to strike out to notice any of the little signs on Greg’s person that things had changed.

“Speaking to me again, are we?” Greg deflected.

“Clearly not. Must have started fucking his secretary again.” Sherlock sounded bored.

The disdainful arrogance he wrapped around himself with a tight smirk playing at his lips was calculated to be hurtful, but it seemed slightly brittle, more a façade than the usual seamless characterisation most people never realised wasn’t real. It made Greg reluctant to throw the truth, that he and Mycroft were okay (and in the language of teenagers, “on again”), in Sherlock’s face like he deserved. Doing so felt dangerous, though not to him, and twenty odd years with the Yard had taught Greg to listen to his gut.

Sherlock was a diamond, but a flawed one, and every now and then those flaws rose to the surface where a single tap could cause him to shatter.

“After all, you’re certainly nowhere near his…” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “usual type.”

It was all enough to make clear that the actual words were ‘Standard’.

Even knowing Sherlock whole heartedly approved of their relationship, it was a kick to Greg’s sleeping yet ever present demons, which Sherlock knew, and even trying not to break him open, there were still things Greg couldn’t let him get away with in all good conscience.

“Spoke to him on the phone, yesterday, if that counts.” He said casually.

It was actually the truth, sort of. He’d really spoken to Anthea who’d called instead of Mycroft to make logistical arrangements for today. The photo she’d sent him of an exhausted Mycroft passed out in the rocking chair with Ben in his arms more than made up for not getting to speak to his lover.

Something changed in Sherlock, but Greg couldn’t say what for the life of him.

“I assume Donovan has handed over the proof you needed.” Sherlock snapped icily.

It was a subtle dig, a reminder that Greg was on shaky ground everywhere and that Sherlock could jump ship if he so chose. Sherlock liked to pretend he would, though Greg knew better. It was sometimes hard to _believe_ , but he _knew_.

“Yes, thank you for that.” Greg replied courteously, especially thankful that John Watson hadn’t shot the murderer during the arrest for groping Sherlock.

Broken hands were much easier to explain away than bullet holes.

“Has anyone else in the city deigned to be to least moderately interesting?” The frost edge to his voice and thinning lips suggested Sherlock wasn’t appreciating Greg’s reasonableness.

Tough. Greg wasn’t going to give him the fight he wanted.

“According to you no one’s ever,” was as far as Greg got before Sherlock’s coat tails had already swirled out the door in a wave of derisive disgust, shorter suit jacket conveying the impressive sentiment usually the purview of the longer coat.

The quiet click as the door shut behind him was accusatory, though what Greg had failed at he had no clue.

“Right…” Greg stared after the retreating figure through the glass walls.

A questioning look from Sally. Greg shrugged back, as clueless as her.

Maybe Mycroft would know. Greg would, could, check with him later.

Resolving to put the issue out of him mind for now, Greg bent over to get his pen, almost hitting his head in surprise as his mobile rang.

“In-Inspector Lestrade.” He managed, fumbling for the phone as he pushed upright.

“Hi Greg.” John sounded subdued.

“John, hi, if you’re looking for himself you just missed him.” Greg replied trying not to sound too harried as time ticked on and his paperwork pile didn’t.

“Oh, no, I was just calling to give you a heads up. He’s… probably not in a good mood.”

“He beat you here.” Greg shuffled the pages on his desk. “And yeah, I noticed when the door rebounded off the wall and he started in on Mycroft not speaking to me.”

“Sorry,” John apologised dully. “He’s… I’d better find him. He’s probably gone home.”

“John, what’s up?” Greg broke though John’s dull toned wanderings.

“Nothing, just – Nothing.” John took a deep shaky breath. “Nothing, just stuff. You know how it is. How are you going?”

“I’ve just had Sherlock Holmes in my office, throwing a fit, starting in on my actually better relationship with his brother, not noticing that it was actually better, and not insulting my intelligence once, despite trying to be actively hurtful, but everything’s alright? Bullshit, John. That’s not he’s bored.”

Greg could almost hear John wince.

“What’s up?” Greg asked.

He stared regretfully at his paperwork. It would have to wait.

“We just had an appointment,” John conceded, “with the specialist.”

Greg’s brain whirled frantically, trying to work out what John meant as his first thought was that ‘specialist’ was another euphemism for prostitute like ‘professional’ and that made no sense. Greg had trouble picturing the duo needing to add anything to their relationship, and he would never imagine that given how possessive John and Sherlock both were.

Oh, wait, fertility specialist. Doctor, of course.

“I thought you were going to wait until after another Heat?”

There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the phone.

“Oh,” Greg realised. “No, ah… right.”

“Yeah.”

Greg could picture John leaning against something, a wall, maybe tube station, maybe a bus stop, slumped in dejection.

“Well, how was the uh, appointment?” He fumbled.

“Could have been worse.” John said.

It sounded like ‘couldn’t have been worse’.

“That bad?” Greg felt his throat clenching in sympathy.

“It’s not… it isn’t me… and it’s not Sherlock’s weight or age. It’s not even the cocaine.” John took a deep breath. “It’s the suppressants. That he made. They’re…”

Greg sat quietly while John struggled with words. Silence from him would be more effective than anything he could ask. More honestly, he also didn’t know what to say.

“Sherlock, he… it’s quite ironic actually.” John laughed, a dry, slightly hysterical laugh. “He’s managed to create the world’s best birth control – all the fun of Estrus, but-

John cut off. From the rustle of the fabric near the mike, Greg figured he was either pushing a hand against his mouth to hold back the flood or the phone was now dangling loosely at his side while he regained control.

“It’s quite amazing, biologically.” Dr Watson continued. “Whatever he used, he’s managed to separate the hormonal activation of the Estrus Cycle from the release of the ovum.”

“And for the layman?”

“He’s decoupled Heat from when he’s fertile. He can have marathon sex during Estrus and doesn’t have to worry about pregnancy because there’s nothing to fertilise. Of course, when he is ovulating there’s no chance of conception because without the biological changes from Estrus his reproductive system is completely isolated from the rest.” His voice faltered, then recovered. “Perfect birth control without suppression. F-first of its kind, ruddy _genius_.”

There was another quick pause while John struggled to keep his detached doctor persona to the fore, rather than the highly emotional Alpha Dom.

“Is there anything they can do?” Greg asked softly.

“Yeah, yeah, well, maybe.” John’s voice oscillated between lifeless and emotional as he struggled for control. “That’s what I was just… why I didn’t call… Sherlock left straight after the …news.”

“So he doesn’t know its reversible?” Greg involuntarily bit his lip.

No wonder Sherlock had looked so small when he had arrived.

“It might not be.”

“Oh.”

Silence expanded to fill the gap left between them as Greg absorbed the news and John presumably struggled with vocalising it, making it real.

“They think it might be though, yeah?” Greg double checked.

The charcoal grey despair gathering on the other side of the phone was threatening to choke him.

“Yeah, yeah. They,” John cleared his throat and his voice dropped back to the lower, calming register and tones Greg thought of as Doctor Watson. “They think it’s to do with hormone levels, and that his body is trying to correct itself. Reset the baseline, I guess. That’s why his Heats have been getting closer together as everything adjusts. That’s the theory anyway.”

“So it might fix itself eventually?”

Even Greg could hear the higher note in his voice and tried to tone it down. It sounded jarringly artificial next to John’s flat depth.

“It’s possible. They’re hoping to help things along with hormone treatments, just at different times in the cycle to usual fertility treatments and maybe…”

“That’s not too bad then.” Greg fiddled absently with his pen. “Might take longer, but…”

John didn’t immediately reply, adding to the sense of foreboding hanging over every break in speech.

“It’s not possible to identify any potential long term effects until after the cycle has been regulated.” Dr Watson said carefully.

“Meaning?” Greg pressed gently.

“Even if everything… syncs again, Sh- he may not be able to successfully carry to term or they suspect there might be a higher probability of genetic abnormalities in any chi – issue.”

“John…” Greg trailed off.

“Even if we conceive, he’s – _Sherlock_ ’s unlikely to be able to carry it and there’s a high possibility that the baby will have disabilities.” John spat out as quickly as possible. His voice wobbled at the end. “A Holmes with learning difficulties. Not just not a genius, actually disabled. I don’t – it’d _kill_ him.”

“I know.”

Greg couldn’t imagine Mycroft not loving Ben, but he also knew his love well enough to know he’d not understand, would be totally unable to relate to his son if Ben wasn’t at least above average. Between Mycroft’s standards and the pressure he’d naively put on Ben, they’d never see eye to eye and end up hating each other, totally bewildered by the fact they’d ended up there.

He was still worried about that deep down. Not much, but a bit.

If Ben had been born disabled, with some problem that could be explicitly laid at Mycroft’s feet…

He’d still love him, always _love_ him, but…

“Not that there a high chance of that. There’s almost no chance of conception, even-” John shut up abruptly and heavy breathing filled Greg’s ear as John calmed himself down again.

“It’s not a no.” Greg said quietly. “It’s not, John, and don’t borrow trouble before you need it.”

“I know, I know.”

A horn blared somewhere in the distance, electronically distorted over the phone connection.

“Do you need to get a beer?” Greg asked.

This was more personal sharing than usually occurred without the shield of alcohol.

“I should go home. Tell him there might be a chance, still. That’s it’s not, we might…”

“Yeah, sounds like an idea.” Greg agreed.

“Least I don’t have to dig him out of Mycroft’s house again.” John tried joviality that fell flat before it even began.

“John.” Greg’s heart was back in his throat, threatening to strangle every word. The air clung to him, rolling in and out of his lungs in cloying humid breathes. “John, Mycroft’s coming home tonight.”

Greg could feel time slowing as John’s seconds joined the leaden thud that marked everyone of Greg’s, inescapably drummed out by the drill sergeant of a watch on his wrist. John under stood what Greg was saying, why Mycroft’d be home.

“His name is Abenathy Francois Holmes. He was born 9th September, 5 lbs and 35.4 cm.” Greg recited, mouth on autopilot. “He’ll be home this afternoon.”

There was controlled breathing harsh in Greg’s ear.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” Greg admitted. “What with Sherlock and…”

The end of the sentence faded away into more waiting and breathing.

“I’ll tell him.”

Cold clipped vowels, sharp consonants. Captain Watson, probably straightened automatically into parade rest while John had his emotional breakdown in a corner.

“Thanks, yeah. Just thought… before he finds out another…”

“I’ll tell him.”

“He’s gorgeous, John, really, and I haven’t spoken to Mycroft, but he’s going to want Sherlock to meet his nephew, I’m sure, maybe be godfather or something, Uncle and all, and I don’t _know_ , but I imagine that’s what he’s-”

“I’ll tell him, Greg. The rest might…”

“Take some time.” Greg nodded. “I know. I just… given…”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

It wasn’t any fairer blurting out Ben’s arrival to John and shoving the birth in his face than it was to Sherlock, Greg knew that, but of the two of them John had better coping mechanisms. It actually made it more unfair, because not ricocheting through the Yard or shooting cocaine meant John was usually given the hard news by default under the hope he’d find a way to break it to Sherlock in a more controlled manner.

“Do,” Greg cleared his throat. “Do you want me to tell Mycroft for you?”

Alphas didn’t like to advertise reproductive problems, even when it wasn’t their virility in question. Ancient instinct, from the days where not reproducing meant you were liable to lose your mate to someone who could breed them. A touchy subject and Mycroft was too dominant for John to be comfortable knowing, Omega and relative not-with-standing.

“Please.” John’s reply was clear and crisp. “Before he contacts Sherlock, would be best. Try and get him to refrain from interfering, financially or otherwise, or I can’t promise what Sherlock will do.”

Because Mycroft was an Omega, and his unwanted and much loathed fertility would be a twisting knife in Sherlock’s gut.

“I’ll try.”

“Good.”

“I’ll just…” Greg cleared his throat after they both failed to mention anything else.

“Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

Greg nodded, even if John couldn’t see and went to hang up.

“Oh, Greg-” John’s small tinny voice caught him just before he hit the button.

“Yeah?”

“… Congratulations.”

Greg swallowed around the sudden restriction in his throat, heart beating hollowly in his chest.

It was the only time he’d hear that. Mycroft would again and again, and maybe Greg would as a friend of the family and adopted Dad, maybe casually mistaken in the street, but this was the only deliberate, genuine wish from someone _who knew_ he’d get.

He hadn’t realised how much it would mean.

“Thank you.”

The dial tone sounded in his ear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening all! Welcome to Chapter 3. It's a little lighter than the last one. Ben's home!!! If anyone wants to refresh themselves on what the Brown Room that became the Nursery used to look like before it's renovation, I strongly advise you go and have a look at the pictures in the background material (melody-in-time.livejournal.com/13388.html). 
> 
> Again, I'm still finding typos so let me know if you see more I've missed. This is no where near as refined as Though I Walk Through the Valley as that one I'd finished and re-read before positing, while this is still being written.

Anticipation usually runs in three stages. First is the stress: heart pounding as everything is organised, planned and inevitably runs late or doesn’t run at all. Second is the glee: heart fluttering with adrenaline and giddiness. Last is the worry: when every beat of the heart sings its chorus of panic, alarm, doom.

The length of each stage is well known to depend on circumstance, and people often move in between, stage two fluttering while stressing about arrangements, or stage three worry slowly but surely carving its way in in chunks.

By the time Greg made it home he was mired in a heady mix of stages 1 and 2. Within five minutes of Mycroft’s projected arrival, he had slipped fully into stage three.

He’d never been good at waiting. Stakeouts were the bane of Greg’s life, sitting, watching, waiting for someone to do something. They weren’t like the shows, where every minute was charged with adrenaline. More like the bits they cut out because the audience doesn’t want to see how long that short sequence took to shoot.

For someone who got so bored so quickly, Sherlock Holmes was shockingly good at stakeouts.

Greg wasn’t, and spent the thirty seven minutes and four seconds it took Mycroft to arrive after he himself got home running up and down the stairs, triple checking the nursery, and My’s room, and the nursery, and his hair, and the nursery, but unable to leave the front door alone for long.

He was three quarters of the way back down when the door opened and Mycroft finally stepped through. Anthea followed him, dropping a bag to the side, then disappearing. Greg assumed she was organising suitcases. He didn’t care.

Mycroft’s scent had dulled after the birth, fading away with the heightened pheromone levels, though sensitised by exposure to the unique combination of scents he defined as Mycroft Greg could still detect it slowly beginning to permeate the room in slow, leaking tendrils.

Mycroft looked tired, threadbare scent reinforcing the impression of fatigue, but healthier than when Greg had last seen him. The hollows under his cheeks had filled out even as his waist line had shrunk on whatever crash diet he’d employed to shift the weight. His hair was perfectly in place, fastidiously so, but the neatness of his appearance didn’t conceal the bags under his eyes or the fact it took him a couple of long seconds to realise Greg was there.

“You’re home.” Mycroft blinked, confirming his fatigue.

A rested and aware Mycroft would never state the obvious unless it served a purpose.

“Of course, I’m here.” Greg snorted, bounding down the stairs. “As if I’d be – hey Ben! Oh how are you?”

Nestled in Mycroft’s arms the little bundle waved a little fist in the air and stuck his little fingers in his little mouth. Large eyes, still of some indeterminate light colour, blinked at Greg as a response was gurgled.

“He can’t recognise you yet.” Mycroft cautioned as Greg gushed over the baby. “Not really. His field of vision is only about twenty centimetres, thirty at best.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t know me, does it Benny-boy?” Greg commandeered their son as My winced, potentially at Greg’s diabetes inducing tone, possibly at the butchering of their son’s name. “Cause you remember your Daddy’s scent, don’t you munchkin?”

Ben blew a bubble in his saliva.

“He’s so much bigger.” Greg whispered, eyes firmly locked on the baby in his arms. “He has hair now, proper hair.”

“It’s barely more fuzz than he had before.” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“He’s beautiful.” Greg ignored Mycroft, kissing the dark fuzz.

Ben’s fist reflexively closed around his Sire’s offered thumb and Greg cooed lightly.

“You are so sentimental.” Mycroft scolded.

Greg opened his mouth to scold back, but there was a gentle smile curling one corner of Mycroft’s mouth and his eyes were kind, so Greg ignored his lover’s reflexive disdain for anything caring, and Mycroft repaid him with a ghost like hand trailing across Greg’s lower back.

“We should take him up stairs.” Mycroft murmured.

Greg nodded, instantly conflicted as Mycroft moved towards the bag Anthea had left. By rights he should carry it, especially as Mycroft was still healing from the birth, but that meant handing Ben back to Mycroft and letting go of him was an equally distasteful proposition.

He could try to carry both, but if he stumbled that posed an unacceptable risk to Ben’s safety.

Mycroft, tired as he was, was clearly not oblivious to the obvious tension suddenly on his Alpha’s face.

“We can get the bag later.” He offered, starting up the stairs without waiting for a response.

Greg sighed in relief. The first steps were nerve racking, filled with automatic terror that he’d screw up, but when he didn’t immediately stumble and Ben didn’t start crying the tension drained out of his muscles and he was free to move quickly up the stairs behind Mycroft without his instincts grabbing him.

The nursery was spotless; as perfectly arranged as any show room in a magazine. At least it was in Greg’s mind, and it had taken hours before his insatiable nesting instinct had been satisfied. He’d always associated nesting with bearers, female or Omega, and hadn’t been quite prepared for the way it hit him.

Technically, the Brown Room hadn’t changed much. Certainly he’d left the colour scheme alone. The strange camel brown and sky blue had grown on him the more nights he’d spent in there trying to relax enough to sleep and at the end of the day he hadn’t wanted a major renovation. The single bed was replaced by the over the top cot and the desk had been removed for a change table. He’d had Anthea’s mystery removalists take the TV away as well. He was firmly of the opinion that children of any age, newborn to teen, had no need for a TV in their rooms and it was going to be hard enough to keep Ben grounded without accustoming him to too many luxuries from Day One.

Mycroft didn’t know it yet (probably), but there were some decidedly non-thousand thread count sheets with rockets and aliens on them in the fancy linen chest in the corner, and Greg _would_ use them.

After his trip to Compton Wynyates Greg had asked Anthea for a rocking chair to be brought in as well. Given the obvious age of the antique, Greg suspected it came straight from Mycroft’s childhood home and had accepted it gratefully, even if it was in a style that clashed with the rest of the room and had set him cleaning it with a dust cloth four times before he broke free of the impulse.

The only place he’d been able to squeeze it was in the corner between the windows Greg had discovered were not original, not unless they’d invented double glazing in whatever century the house had been built in prior to the 21st. It was a bit cramped and he’d almost taken it out again, but the faint look of surprise that had broken through Mycroft’s control with the almost sad fondness right on its heels made him glad he hadn’t, even if it did mean falling over it on his way to the dresser upteen times a night.

He’d left the couch against his better judgement, not because it wouldn’t be useful, but because it was cream. Greg hadn’t wanted to know how much it would cost to replace what was otherwise a perfectly useable couch; he just didn’t think it would survive Ben’s childhood. The shelves up and over the couch, and the brand new bookcase replacing the TV, were full of books and toys ranging in age and difficulty from ABC’s to first year of school. Greg had even given in and bought an antique styled rocking horse, unable to resist its sweet face.

The stuffed rabbit he’d borrowed was now back in the cot.

“You’ve spent a lot of time on this.” Mycroft commented, finger lightly tracing the plaster moulding of an ornate A hung on the wall.

Greg ran that through his internal Holmes-to-Human translator and came up with “This is amazing. I love it.”

“Had to do something.” He replied gruffly, turning Ben so he could see the rocking horse.

“Not really.” Mycroft ambled closer to the cot and leant down to pick up the rabbit.

He didn’t mention that it was saturated with Greg’s scent and stale touches of his own, or point out the obvious conclusion. Instead he gently stroked its ear and replaced it.

“Um, My.” Greg called quietly. Ben was screwing up his face and whining in his arms, slowly beginning to work his way up to what would probably be full blown cries. “What have I done?”

Mycroft strode over and deftly checked Ben’s nappy, dry, and offered him a finger to suck, refused.

“Tired.” He concluded. “Tired and overstimulated. This was naptime at the house. If we put him down he should sleep for an hour or so before he’s due for a feed.”

“Right, yeah.” Greg felt slightly stupid for not realising that himself.

“Come on.” Mycroft lifted Ben out of Greg’s arms, ignoring the little fists waving uselessly in the air as Ben began to really get into it. “Let’s put you in bed, shall we.”

Ben kept fussing as Mycroft lay him in the cot and pulled the blanket over him, crooning in a deep rumbling tone the whole time.

“Is he okay?” Greg took a hesitant step forward as Ben’s fussing kicked up a notch to wailing.

“Just tired. His routine has been run roughshod over today.” Mycroft stroked Ben’s cheek as he spoke, then returned to his melodic wordless hum.

Greg hovered at the wardrobe, not knowing what to do. Eventually Ben’s soul-wrenching wails died away to pitiful whimpers and then restless grumbles as his body gave out before his temper, little face still screwing up in Sherlock-like disgust as he attempted to make his displeasure known even in sleep.

“Did you acquire a baby monitor?” Mycroft murmured quietly, withdrawing from the cot.

“Um, yeah, here.” Greg moved cautiously to the bedside table he’d left next to the cot and pulled open the top drawer.

The wood scraped lightly against itself and they both froze, waiting to see if Ben would stir. With a noiseless sigh of relief at the baby’s continued restless slumber Greg reached in and pulled out the two units. One was set on the table next to the old fashioned articulated bear Greg had left positioned in front of the lamp. The other he clutched tight in his hand.

With a last soft whispering touch over Ben’s sleeping fist, Mycroft straightened and backed away, moving gracefully towards the door. Greg knew he should follow, should go before he did something to disturb Ben, but it was so hard to leave, so hard to convince his shuddering heart that he’d still be there when Greg came back.

“Gregory.” Mycroft had paused in the doorway.

“Yeah, yeah. Coming.” Greg whispered back.

His body made no effort to move.

“It will only be for an hour or so. If I don’t feed him then he’ll be up all night.” Mycroft held out a hand. “Gregory, **come**.”

Slowly Greg managed to move, feet carrying him reluctantly away.

“An hour?” he asked, letting Mycroft pull him out of the room and shut the door quietly behind him.

“If we want any chance of close to a full night’s sleep, even in multiple parts.” Mycroft confirmed.

“You look exhausted.” Greg ran the back of his fingers down Mycroft’s cheek.

“I may be employing some slight sense of exaggeration when I intimate that he’s sleeping through the night.” Mycroft admitted.

“I can help now. I’m here.”

“Yes.” Mycroft gave a tired, slightly bewildered as though the concept hadn’t previously sunk in, nod. “Yes, you are.”

Ben hadn’t appreciated being woken to feed and had screamed his head off for longer than he’d slept to make sure they knew before finally consenting to drink. He’d certainly developed a fine pair of lungs since Greg had come back to London, and the sneaking suspicion that Ben was going to be a Holmes baby of the Sherlockian variety (demanding, contrary, and insistent upon his own version of the world) was beginning to germinate in the dark recesses of Greg’s mind. Not that he had much experience with babies, no experience with babies, but it seemed that way to him.

Ben was quiet now, sleeping innocently in his cot as if he hadn’t driven one of his parents to exhausted collapse. Greg had finished changing Ben and putting him down under Mrs Potts’s critical eye after Mycroft’s iron control had failed to stop his eyes drooping as he fed Ben or the sway side to side as he stood. The old Housekeeper had immediately fussed him into bed and then returned to give Greg strict instructions on burping, changing and walking to sleep, which Greg was inordinately thankful for.

One weekend with a newborn over two weeks ago did not a competent carer make, and it was very clear quite quickly that valiant attempt or no, Greg was well and truly out of his depth.

He’d apparently been deemed acceptable, if only because it was late for the baby and he knew, just knew, she would be at his elbow giving instructions until he’d passed her competency tests over the weekend.

He could handle that, so long as she didn’t pull out one of those teaching dolls.

It was quiet in the house now. Everyone else was asleep, Mrs Potts installed in the Red Room for the duration, and old as the building was it was well insulated. Greg’s ears strained through the silence for cars or buses, but the nursery was at the rear of the house so nothing broke the weighty stillness in the air. As would be expected at one in the morning.

He should have been in bed getting as much sleep as possible between Ben’s feeds, because he was nowhere near sleeping through the night. Instead Greg stood at the end of the cot, curtain cracked open just enough to let London’s ambient light into the room. In a movie or storybook tale he’d be studying his son’s features by a single arc of graceful moonlight, but this was London and real life, where the cot’s drapery prevented the light shining directly into Ben’s eyes and waking him, and it would be streetlight anyway, not the moon.

In sleep, Ben had curled up tight, still bent limbs pulled in close. His little mouth was just slightly open as he slept and the dark wisps of hair looked even darker in the twilight shadows. As Greg watched, his forehead crinkled into a frown, then relaxed away as his dream moved on, test firing muscles as he slept.

There was nothing special about watching Ben sleep, nothing so fascinating it should be keeping Greg from his own rest. He was in his pyjamas, feet bare against the carpet as he just stood there and watched and watched, with no compulsion to leave even as grey fatigue began to creep in around the edges.

He wasn’t sure where he’d go anyway. When Mrs Potts had ushered Mycroft into bed she’d shut the door behind him, and it had remained firmly closed, a very solid barrier in the way. Greg couldn’t help feeling that it would be incredibly presumptive to assume that he was welcome, expected, in Mycroft’s bed based on the fragile undefined peace between them. It would be clear to both of them he’d been sleeping in there while Mycroft was away, his scent beginning to soak into the fabric just like Mycroft’s had, but with Mycroft home and in there…

If the door had been open he might have gone through anyway, but closed was a different matter, even if it hadn’t been Mycroft who had shut it.

He couldn’t bring himself to return to his own room and cold bed though. Sleeping alone would be equally presumptuous and could easily offend or upset Mycroft if he’d been expecting otherwise (and would never admit it) so sleeping alone would become the immovable status quo.

He hadn’t thought of it as a problem before, until Mycroft gave in to no sleep for too long and Mrs Potts shut the solid, wooden door.

He didn’t mind standing here though, listening to Ben breathe as the world slept, even if it wasn’t what he’d intended first up. It was useful and let Mycroft get some proper rest. Greg had already dealt with one night time session, catching up Ben as he began to screw up his face and carrying him downstairs to the kitchen to feed. He’d noticed during dinner Anthea, or Mrs Potts, had stored bottles for night time feeding in the fridge. He assumed this was Anthea as there were typed instructions on the fridge detailing the step by step process for heating the milk for Ben. Okay, the new nappy might not have looked as perfectly neat as the one Mrs Potts had put on, but it _was_ on, and he’d managed all by himself.

Ben had been staring at Greg’s face whenever it was in what Greg assumed was his visual range. It felt like Ben was trying to remember him from that brief weekend, maybe match the face to the scent he would remember so much more clearly. That was probably giving Ben too much credit even now, certainly was for a two day old. In reality, the mobile muscles of the face were probably just more interesting than the surroundings that weren’t yet in focus.

He was so different now, had changed so much already and it made Greg ache to think about how much he’d missed. He would never get those first weeks back, though he admitted they weren’t much in the scheme of things. It was just hard to remember that when Ben had grown so dramatically now he was freed of the constraints of the womb. His limbs may not have been straightened fully, and he didn’t seem quite aware of them, but the rest of his body had suffered no such delay.

How different would Ben be tomorrow? When would he first smile or deliberately laugh? What would be his first word? His first step, his first friend, his first boy or girlfriend? How would he change in school, at university, with kids? The future stretched out long and endless, but it felt as though he blinked it would be gone in a second, leaving Greg to stare at his son, a fully grown stranger with children of his own and a minor position in the British Government.

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was soft and muddled with sleep. “Why are you here?”

Greg felt his lips curl into smile, but all his attention remained on the small body in the cot. That Mycroft had slept through Ben’s crying when Greg had taken him to be fed had been fairly solid proof in Greg’s mind that Mycroft wasn’t going to be awake or aware of anything that night. He might have been awake, but Greg wasn’t entirely sure about aware.

“You’re in London, Mycroft. I live here.”

“No, I meant…” Mycroft’s voice trailed off in confusion.

Greg longed to turn his head and look at his sleep-muddled love. He’d only been privileged enough to see Mycroft in this state once before, and it had been delightfully adorable until he’d turned green. Greg could picture the mussed locks with the slightest hint of rebellious curl tumbling free of the iron control, the general bewilderment that only broke free when Mycroft was too tired to realise his mask had slipped, the slightest creases on his cheeks from the pillows. He didn’t look though, keeping his eyes on Ben and silently counting his breaths.

Arms wrapped around him from behind. Greg tried not to forget that exhausted half-asleep Mycroft was much more sweet and affectionate than normal Mycroft while memorising the feeling of his slightly taller love’s body wrapped around him. Leaning on him really, as Mycroft’s weight swayed back and forth with his balance.

“Come to bed.” Mycroft whispered. “It’s late.”

“He’ll need a feed soon.” Greg replied.

Half of Greg’s brain was busy running through the heating instructions and working out how long it would be before Ben wanted more. The other half was yelling at the first half for not immediately taking the invitation and luxuriating in sleeping beside Mycroft again.

“We’ll hear him on the monitor.” Mycroft argued, weight pulling backwards out of the room.

“Go back to sleep.” Greg heard himself say. “I’ll stay and take care of him.”

Stunned internal silence as Greg contemplated whether he’d gone insane.

Mycroft pulled gently again.

“It’s all right. You’re tired, go back to bed.” Greg stayed rooted to the spot, still following every rise and fall of the little chest.

“Gregory, look at me.” While soft, there was more will and intelligence behind Mycroft’s words.

Greg’s head stayed forward, gaze on his son.

The arms disappeared around his body and a hand came down to grip his elbow instead.

“He’ll still be there in the morning, Gregory. He won’t disappear.”

‘Won’t he?’ Greg wanted to ask. ‘Can you promise I won’t blink and he’ll be out of my life before I even realise it?’

The words stayed locked in his mouth.

Mycroft’s spare hand traced Greg’s spine, landing gently in the small of his back. “Come to bed.”

“Promise me.” Once the gates were open, the words gushed out in a tumble. “I can’t do that again, I can’t. He’s so different already, in two weeks, and I can’t… Don’t take him away again. Just… don’t. Promise me.” Greg’s gaze swung to Mycroft breaking free of Ben for the first time. “Promise me.”

Mycroft was as delightfully rumpled as Greg could have hoped. His hair was as messy as it was possible for his short hair to be, cowlicks everywhere, and his face was still slightly squashed on one side. His eyes though were bright, proof that Mycroft had pushed the fatigue aside to try and solve the problem in front of him.

‘Promise me.’ Greg’s eyes pleaded. ‘Promise me you won’t take him away from me, before I let myself love him more than I already do.’

“He will be there in the morning,” Mycroft repeated, “and the morning after, and the morning after that, until you’re well and truly sick of him tramping up and down the stairs in muddy shoes and listening to his music at absurd volumes at entirely uncivilised hours.

“Now come to bed.” Mycroft gently pulled on Greg’s arm.

“He’ll be awake soon.” Greg felt obliged to point out.

“Then we’ll be up too, but until then…” Mycroft steered Greg out of the Nursery and into the master bedroom, leaving both doors open.

“Are you-” Greg began, head craning around to the hallway, though it afforded him no better view of Ben than not having moved would have.

“You can’t spend your life by his cot, Gregory.”

Something in Mycroft’s tone caught Greg’s attention, dragging it back so he actually studied Mycroft’s face. Then smiled.

“That come from Anthea or the doc?” He asked.

Mycroft tilted his head dismissively, as if that didn’t confirm Greg’s suspicions.

“I’ll just ask her.” Greg warned playfully, slightly relieved it wasn’t just him experiencing that strange fearful need to see Ben.

“Dr Koen.” Mycroft harrumphed.

“So not that unusual then?”

“Separation anxiety? No, even if we weren’t in slightly unusual circumstances.”

“Right, right.” Greg took a deep breath, letting their combined scents wash over him. “He will be all right though, yeah? We shouldn’t have him in a cot in here for a bit?”

“I don’t believe the recommended therapy for dependency issues is pandering to them.” Mycroft left off that he would rather die than be so visibly affected by something out of his control.

“Yeah, yeah.” Greg took another breath and turned to the bed. “Sleep then?”

“Until we’re awakened; yes, that is the general plan.”

Satisfied Greg was settled, Mycroft had already walked over and climbed back into the bed. Unsure what the rules were, Greg climbed in the other side, carefully making sure not to touch Mycroft. He couldn’t say he wasn’t disappointed when Mycroft’s only reaction was to switch off the light rather than pull him closer. Still, he was there, Mycroft was there, and next door their son was asleep.

A start, he decided sleepily, a start.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four! I'm glad people liked Ben and generally seemed to find the last chapter a little less heavy. Sorry the chapters are still a little bit shorter, but with putting more of Sherlock and John in we're switching voice a lot more often leading to shorter bits at a time. 
> 
> We're right back in to the heavy stuff for this one I'm afraid so...
> 
> Warnings for fertility issues and associated angst.
> 
> Edit: Hey everyone, I'm having trouble getting AO3 to behave atm. It turned Chapter 3 into a draft, then it added it back in as chapter five, and I have no idea what will happen next. Hopefully it's now fixed, but I think in removing the extra chapter 3 I might have deleted people's comments (if you wonder why they're gone). Let me know if anything else stops being quite right, and thanks to those who gave me the heads up

“Come on, John. I’m going back to work on Monday. He’s been in London for two weeks.”

John sighed and rubbed his hand backwards through his hair as his sort-of-brother-in-law tried to weedle an agreement to come and meet his nephew out of him.

“Yeah, Greg, but-”

“I know it’s hard for him, but this is his nephew.” Greg continued. “It’s kind of a big thing he meets him.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Mycroft’s already burying himself in work and I’m going to have a hard enough time getting him home, so this weekend before he decides to fly to, I don’t know, Timbuktu really is the best.”

John just sighed again.

“Come on, John, in the interest of Holmes family unity and fixing broken bridges, yeah?”

Greg sounded ridiculously hopeful despite his pleading.

“I can’t promise-”

“Thanks, John. Really.”

“I’ll ask, but-”

A distorted electronic wail made itself distantly known.

“Oh, that’s the baby monitor.”

“Greg-”

“Got to go. Ta, mate. Appreciate it.”

“Gre-”

John didn’t bother finishing; the dial tone really wouldn’t care. Instead he slowly lowered the mobile from his ear and sighed again for good measure, slumping against the wall in the entry. It wasn’t the first time Greg had called about them going over and meeting Ben. To the DI’s credit, it was only the third, though each had become increasingly pleading and less inclined to take no for an answer.

It was completely understandable. Greg was entirely besotted with his son, as any new father was, and honestly couldn’t comprehend why anyone wouldn’t want to luxuriate in Ben’s presence and heap him with praise. Considering there was no one else Greg could show off to and that he really did seem to see Ben as the cure-all for all relationship ills, John really had to try and give him credit for only calling thrice, even if he really didn’t want to.

He hated being rational sometimes, hated it with all the anger, frustration and hurt he couldn’t bring himself to direct at a person. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, it wasn’t Mycroft’s fault, it wasn’t Greg’s fault, it certainly wasn’t Ben’s fault, all he’d done was be born, but that didn’t change the fact that there was a lot of _feeling_ that had to go somewhere.

He and Sherlock hadn’t had sex since the Omega’s Heat. Sherlock had pulled away from him to the point their fingers didn’t so much as brush when John handed him the never ending cups of tea he made, because when John Watson was stressed, he made tea. Sherlock didn’t even come to bed anymore, at least not at night. John knew he was sleeping while John was at work because excellent memory or no, Sherlock couldn’t imitate the effect of over a decade in the army with a drill sergeant bouncing coins off covers with sadistic glee on tucking in corners.

So Sherlock was sleeping. He was even sleeping in a bed not on the couch. He just wasn’t doing it while John was there.

It all made John feel worse. Sherlock was his Sub; it was John’s responsibility to look after him. He should be making Sherlock talk; he should definitely be putting Sherlock under and dragging him out of his chaotic head before it churned and clanked its way to a meltdown. That was his job, the burden he’d agreed to when he first clasped the plain leather band around Sherlock’s wrist because it was all he could afford.

He couldn’t though. Not now, not at that minute with all the anger and frustration bubbling under the surface. He didn’t trust himself to hold it in check, and taking a scene with all those emotions ready to burst out and cause actual harm would be blatantly irresponsible of him. Especially as he didn’t trust Sherlock to safeword if John was out of control instead of suffering through as though the punishment were his due.

He could still put Sherlock on his knees, wrap his forearms in bindings and set him kneeling at John’s feet until the tireless machine of his mind gave way under John’s force of presence. A lot of Doms would argue he was obliged to, that he was doing Sherlock a disservice and even additional harm by not, but John couldn’t. Sherlock’s independence was his Sub’s most prized possession, possibly second only to his mind, and the trust it had taken to put it in John’s hands knowing that as a Dom, his Dom, John could rip it to shreds…

John couldn’t do it, couldn’t force Sherlock under for anything – needing sleep, needing food, needing a mental time out from his own thoughts. He’d made a promise when Sherlock had chosen to go off his suppressants and through Heat, no less valid because it was unspoken, that he’d never betray that trust. If Sherlock didn’t want something, John would only ever use words, logic and none of his dominant will to reason with him.

It was part of why he was so scared about what might happen if they did conceive. Keeping his silent vow was hard now, and he wasn’t sure he could if there was also a baby in play.

Maybe this was the universe’s way of ensuring he never had to find out.

The worst part was that no matter how much he tried not to, he did blame Sherlock. Not for suppressing his cycle or wanting to lead a life outside what his biology decreed, never for that, but… If only his arrogant idiotic genius had swallowed his pride and put enough of their feud aside to go to Mycroft for suppressants, or even just to get the same doctor rather than bullheadedly insisting on creating his own. Mycroft’s fertility was completely unaffected, John was fielding less and less gracious begging to come and see proof of that, but no, Sherlock just had to … be Sherlock.

It was hard, so hard to stop the frustration building to repressed anger and from there the short hop-skip-jump to repressed hate. John didn’t want to end up there. It was the last place on heaven or earth he wanted to end up, hating Sherlock.

He should ask about Ben, at least put the option in front of Sherlock if he wanted to take advantage of it. They hadn’t talked about their nephew since John had clinically delivered the news after Sherlock finally arrived back at 221B, same as they hadn’t discussed the equally clinically delivered theories the specialist had about treatment and probabilities of success.

He really should.

It there was one thing that annoyed John even more about the whole situation he found himself in, it was the way his leg twinged with pain as he climbed the stairs, forcing him into an uneven gait as he landed more heavily on the other foot each time. He hated the way it made him look invalided, the instant sign it was to anyone who knew that he was worried, and most of all, that he couldn’t stop it, every time.

The icing on the unwanted cake.

Sherlock was lying on the couch in full sprawl, toes digging into the arm rest and fingers steepled under his chin. He was fully dressed, getting creases in clothes that would have paid their rent for a month rather than his worn pyjamas, another carefully erected barrier between him and the world. Despite John’s progress up the stairs being punctuated loudly by his limp, Sherlock neither opened his eyes nor commented.

It was tempting, so tempting not to broach the subject, to leave the invisible line Sherlock had drawn around himself in silence and stony exclusion and just lie to Greg, say they weren’t going to come, but ta and good luck. It was the most likely response anyway, so it wouldn’t be that much of a lie. Not really. On the other hand, the uneasiness of the situation seemed to be increasing, John finding it hard to be in the same room as his brooding love for long periods of time before the sheer uncomfortable nature of the silence forced him out, and if they didn’t break it now, how long before he was finding it hard to stay in the flat?

“Sherlock…” John’s voice trailed off as he suddenly decided that maybe he wanted tea for this discussion, or to put it off until he could justify a whisky or three.

When he looked back, slivers of Sherlock’s mercurial grey-blue-green eyes could be seen glinting palely up from beneath sweeping eyelashes that made models cry. Only once, but it had actually happened during a case, right before John had punched a designer for saying Sherlock needed to lose weight if he wanted to ‘make it’ and giving him drugs to ‘help with his extra pounds’.

Having Sherlock’s attention unfortunately overrode the pressing desire for tea, if only so he’d have something in his hands to fiddle with. He walked over, supressing his limp as much as possible with as much success as he’d anticipated. Sherlock’s eyes ran a long sweep along his body, observation not lust, as he collected whatever little fragments of data he’d been missing.

John had never truly appreciated how useful Sherlock deducing everything and spitting it out in the open was. John was British, an Alpha, and ex-Army – if there was a combination less willing to talk about feelings he didn’t know it. Usually Sherlock flung everything out in public for him, and while John ended up wrong footed and embarrassed, at least it was said and he could take it from there.

All Sherlock did this time was let his eyes fall closed and tilt his head so his long nose poked even higher in the air.

John hovered uncertainly at the end of the couch, just outside Sherlock’s extended personal space. He had intended to go to his armchair, but somehow that felt wrong as though by moving away he was conceding ground.

“Greg called.” He stayed where he was, looking anywhere except at Sherlock.

In the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock’s toes twitch just slightly.

“He wants us to come over on Sunday sometime, before he goes back to work. Apparently quite a lot given this is the third call.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything and John wasn’t going to look over and risk meeting his eyes.

“Anyway, it’s up to you, but I said I’d ask so there, the option is yours if you want it.”

It seemed slightly ridiculous, the way neither of them were actually saying it – Greg wants you to meet your nephew, his son, your brother’s baby. Ben.

Feeling that way didn’t inspire the need to force the words out in the open though, avoided so long they felt taboo.

There was still no response from Sherlock and John was tempted, so tempted, to walk away and make a cup of tea, knowing that the topic would be closed if he did, another of the links binding it shut work hardened by the silence. His feet felt locked to the floor though, the same inertia that kept the status quo now rooting him to the spot.

Ben wouldn’t, couldn’t, go away. Ceasing to exist was beyond the baby’s abilities, even if he was a Holmes, and he would grow and his presence in their lives, wanted or not, would grow. Greg would keep pushing the point, and dammit John didn’t want to grow old as a stranger to his own nephew, but neither did he want to go through _that_ yet. _That_ was a whole bucket of pain still coming, held back by the chains of the ever strengthening silence.

Except the stronger something became the more brittle it was, and could they afford to let that binding snap for fear of using the key?

“Greg will keep pushing.” John said out loud, heart leaden in his chest.

“Why?” Sherlock’s voice was slightly rough from not speaking all day.

John couldn’t remember when he’d last spoken at all.

“Because he wants you to meet him. You should. We both should.”

“Why would I care about meeting Lestrade’s progeny?”

Sherlock sounded coldly dismissive, but there was a venomous undertone that made his emotional involvement in the subject all too clear.

“Because he’s your nephew, Sherlock.” John replied, bristling a little in instinctive response to the unfeeling tone.

“So? The fact that my brother briefly had an excuse to eat his own body weight in cake does not mean I have any obligation to meet the result.”

John bit his lip rather than give his automatic “He’s family” reply. Being family to the Watsons meant struggling through phone calls and trying, trying, trying even as Harry dove head first into a bottle on the basis of the way things once had been. For Sherlock, family didn’t seem to have anywhere near the same meaning, a cold word rather than the rougher and careworn lingering warmth it held for John.

An obligation, a duty.

“Look, I know it’s hard.” He spoke to the floorboards, chin tucked practically into the collar of his shirt. “I don’t really want to do this either, but it means a lot to Greg, and like it or not he is our nephew and God knows he’s going to need all the support he can get growing up.”

John could almost feel the quick flick of Sherlock’s gaze passing over him.

“This is hard for me too,” he repeated, “but-”

“But he’s the only baby we’re ever going to have in our lives so we might as well meet him?” Sherlock’s voice dripped with loathing. “You can’t even say his name.”

“Neither can you.” John shot back.

“Just go then.” There was a rustling of material from the couch and Sherlock’s toes disappeared from the extremities of John’s vision. “Go and meet him on your own if it’s such a big deal to you.”

John turned his head so he could finally see the couch and his Sub properly. Sherlock had flipped onto his side from his “I’m thinking” sprawl to his “I’m sulking” ball, only this time he was curled a little too tightly to pass it off as petulance and his knuckles were visibly clenched against his shirt.

“You don’t know that.” John moved to sit on the arm of the couch, straddling the neutral zone with one foot in Sherlock’s territory. “We may still have a baby of our own. The doctors said it wasn’t certain, not impossible.”

Sherlock started to curl more tightly into his ball, before arresting what must have been an involuntary movement, unwilling to show how much the topic affected him.

“They were optimistic, really,” John continued, “especially if we try fertility treatment. I don’t like the idea of them using you as a guinea pig, but someone has to be first… I guess…”

Still no response, if the stiffening of Sherlock’s shoulders didn’t count.

“Course it’ll take time and there’s no… guarantee… that there won’t be long term… complications… if we do that, which we certainly don’t have to…” John trailed off as he realised he was babbling.

Avoiding the issue.

Well, one of them anyway.

The one he really didn’t want to acknowledge, but had been tapping at him from the back of him mind since well before this last Heat.

“Sherlock,” he started, then stopped studying his fingernail.

It really was now or never. Getting himself psyched up for this talk, getting Sherlock to listen to it, neither would be happening any time soon if he didn’t just push through now.

“I meant it, you know, when I said I didn’t mind if we never had children. It would be… great, but I’m not going to leave and it’s fine, all fine, really.” He continued cautiously.

Still no response, and a quick glance provided nothing extra, so John looked back at his fingers.

“The treatment, if you want it, it won’t be easy. There’ll be injections, doctors, and it’ll be hard emotionally even before all the interference with your hormones. It’ll get in the way of things, cases and the Work, and we’ll probably end up doing a lot of fighting, with no guarantee at the end that even if we manage he’d be… healthy and…” John took a deep breath.

“Look Sherlock, what I’m trying to say is… If you want to try it, I will be there for you and I will help you through all of it, all the fights, all the appointments,… but it’s not necessary for me to stay, we don’t have to have a baby, and while I’d love one, I just want to make sure you’re doing this, if you decide to because it’s up to you, for the right reasons.”

Sherlock’s head turned enough that John could see his face, and even though he was glaring at him, John took that as permission to slide off the arm and sit on the end of the couch, one hand resting lightly, but securely, around Sherlock’s ankle.

“And what precisely would you define as the right reasons?” Sherlock sneered.

He didn’t kick his ankle free like he would have if he’d been really disgruntled, and John delighted in their first skin to skin contact in weeks, even if it was only a hand to Sherlock’s ankle.

“The right reasons are because you want a baby, because you want to see our child and raise him and know that it will involve us giving up some of our lives, but feel that it’s worth it and you want to, so you can meet him.

“It’s because you feel like it’s right, not, not” John took a deep breath and ploughed on, “not because you feel like a failure if you can’t or you think you have to.”

The ankle in his grip involuntarily twitched as Sherlock flinched. John mentally sighed and hung his head. He’d worried about that, deep down and unmentioned, since he’d been dragged to Mycroft’s house last time.

 _I’m a failure…_ Words he felt like torching the rotten remains of Siger Holmes’s corpse over. It was all too easy to imagine the constant lectures about an Omega’s proper place, an Omega’s role, an Omega’s sole purpose, and what it meant for an Omega who wouldn’t, couldn’t, fulfil it.

Sherlock had rejected most of the vitriol, but obviously deep down a life of what John hatefully considered abuse had set down some roots. Maybe Sherlock had been able to ignore it when it was a choice, a deliberate up you to his Sire, but now _could_ _not_ as opposed to _would not_ appeared to be letting it run rampant.

“You’re not a failure, Sherlock,” John willed him to understand. “I don’t care what you’ve been told, your Sire was wrong, and you were not put on this Earth just to breed. Any idiot can have kids; you’re a genius, you do so much more. Wasting you on breeding would be a failure.”

Sherlock studiously looked at the back of the couch. “Any idiot except me, you mean.”

“You’re not a failure.” John repeated stubbornly. “If your Sire had got his way and made you into nothing more than a baby machine that would have been a failure.”

Sherlock’s shoulders hunched slightly in what John though was a lacklustre shrug. John wanted to sigh, but kept it in knowing that Sherlock would hear it as condemnation, not disappointment in John’s own ability to get through to him. So many issues, all nested together, and all centred around an Alpha sadly out of John’s reach. It would take time, years, to lance these hidden wounds, but for now, for now he needed an answer so he could start to deal with his own demons and, if he needed to, pack some of his own dreams and expectations away.

“Really, Sherlock, and don’t lie to me, do you want to try for this child because you want us to have a baby, in which case just say and I will make you an appointment, or is it because you feel you’re obligated to have one because that’s what you’ve grown up with, because if that’s the case, I think… I think we’re better off with the Work and spoiling our nephew rotten.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, dull eyes still focused on the back of the couch.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly. Then when there was still no response, “Sherlock, I need an answer. Do you want to have a baby or not?”

The detective’s mouth opened and closed without a sound.

“Yes or no?” John pressed, heart racing painfully in his own chest.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s voice was almost inaudible.

“Okay.” John said into the oppressive silence threatening to fall, hands teetering on the edge of shaking from the adrenaline spike and sudden release of getting it out in the open and not hearing a no. “If that’s the case, I think that’s something we need to work out first.

There was no reply, but John didn’t expect one. Instead of waiting he rose, saying “I’ll make us some tea” and went to brew the great British staple while he worked up the strength to call Greg and meet the littlest Holmes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening everyone. I'm hoping that this week we don't have any problems with the chapters going up and displaying properly. Let me know if things aren't working as they should be though!
> 
> No warnings for this chapter. It's got Ben in it, so I'm counting it as fluff, even if it's not really all that sugary cutely fluffy.

A child’s laughter was by far the most innocent sound in the world, Greg decided. Ben didn’t laugh at anyone’s expense or with any sarcasm or disbelief. He laughed because he was happy and felt compelled to show it, tinkling peals rebounding throughout the nursery just because Ben could.

He was becoming a cheeky little imp, laughing and smiling at the slightest provocation, including Greg pulling faces. He hadn’t quite managed to coordinate his limbs, but they did appear to be flailing in the air slightly more on purpose. Kicking Greg in the nose had just provoked more laughter and flailing.

Greg rubbed his sore nose and watched Ben curl almost in half and rediscover his toes. The discovery session didn’t last long as Ben wasn’t able to lift his head yet, but it was still amazing to watch.

Lying splayed out on his stomach on the nursery floor with Ben next to him on his baby blanket and soft strains of The Wheels of the Bus in the background, Greg could only wonder how he’d got so lucky. A year ago the most important thing in his life had been a weekly dinner date. He never could have imagined the level of contentment he was feeling now.

To be fair he would have had even more trouble imagining it six months ago, but that was behind them now. Things may not be fixed yet, but they were progressing at least and now there was Ben.

Greg knew the expression on his face was back to the stupid full to the brim with love one he’d been wearing since Mycroft had brought Ben home, but it didn’t bother him. Ben would always be allowed to know, well and truly, that he was loved.

He didn’t want to go back to work tomorrow. He had no idea how he’d ended up with two weeks paternity leave, all properly dated and signed off, that he’d never applied for, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Now it was coming to an end he couldn’t imagine how he would have coped without it. Leaving Ben everyday was going to be hard enough now, let alone when they’d first come home.

Not that his two week ‘gift’ from either Anthea or Mycroft had been entirely altruistic. After spending that first weekend either asleep or in a half-aware haze, Mycroft had headed back to the office on Monday. Greg couldn’t claim to have been particularly shocked, and while he would have preferred to have all three of them together all day, every day for the last two weeks, Mycroft had been away from the office for an unprecedented amount of time. The government was probably as desperate to have him back as Mycroft was to be back, and he had at least been coming home from the office slightly early.

He was doing half days on the weekend, but still.

Ben giggled again as Greg tickled his palm and onesie covered feet kicked in delight. He really was such a happy baby. Greg laughed back, then leant in and blew a raspberry on his tummy. He copped a fist to the temple for it, but Ben couldn’t hit hard and the fresh peal of laughter was worth it.

Ben was all dressed up in Greg’s favourite pale blue outfit, ready to meet his uncles. Sherlock and John were due any second, and Greg knew they’d love Ben. It would be hard for them both given their own struggles, but he had no doubts that once they’d seen him everything would be okay. By contrast, if it was left to drag out meeting Ben would become a _thing_ , and that was the last thing they needed.

Besides, it would do Ben good to have influences other than him and Mycroft in his life. Dom or Sub, Ben would surely be strong and would benefit immeasurably from John’s warmth and Sherlock’s… Sherlockness.

Ben giggled again, body wiggling happily on the floor. The sound drew an answering rumble out of Greg’s chest. If left his own devices, he would have spent all day everyday next to Ben, absorbing all the changes, the laughs, the smiles.

He didn’t care if Mycroft had arranged him leave so he could go to work. It was the best gift Greg had ever received.

The doorbell startled Ben and pulled Greg abruptly from his reverie.

“Guess who that is, Benny-boy.” Greg clambered up to hands and knees, sitting back on his heels to pick up the squirming little body. “That’s your Uncle John and your Uncle Sherlock. Just don’t listen too much to your Uncle Sherlock, okay? I promise not everyone’s as stupid as he makes them out to be, your da included.”

The lion’s head knocker banged against the stopper again before he was down the stairs.

“Coming!” Greg yelled, debating whether or not answering the door with or without Ben might be better.

“I’ll get it dearie.” Mrs Potts fluttered out of the drawing room, apron and honest to God real feather duster in hand. “You just be careful on those stairs.”

“Thank you.” Greg called, hoisting Ben a little higher in his arms, who cooed softly.

Greg paused where he was and dropped a kiss to the dark hair, stopping to just breathe.

“Come in, come in. About time you got here young Sherlock. Shame on you, taking so long to come and meet your nephew.” Mrs Potts hustled a reluctant John and an even more reluctant Sherlock through the front door.

“Right.” She surveyed them both critically, mothering eye lingering on all Sherlock’s shark angles. “I’ll get an afternoon tea up then. A nice cream tea. Put some flesh on your bones. You’ll never give your Alpha a little one if there’s no spare on you, love.”

Mrs Potts bustled off to the Kitchen, happily oblivious to the mine field she’d just wondered blithely through. Sherlock’s spine stiffened and Greg would have sworn he gained a couple of centimetres height even as his expression melted away into detached boredom. His weight appeared to be balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to walk out, but Captain Watson had shifted into parade rest next to him, so Greg assumed they were staying.

It wasn’t quite the opening Greg had been hoping for.

Ben gurgled in his arms, prompting Greg to finish his descent. He didn’t miss how Sherlock was looking stubbornly down the corridor not at him, or that John was staring through him, head still at perfect military angles.

“Hey, thanks for coming.” He unconsciously held Ben a little tighter in response to the tension and had to forcibly loosen his grip when Ben squawked in protest. “The weather’s nice, so maybe-”

Sherlock had already started walking before Greg finished, thankfully into the house not out of it. He unsurprisingly bypassed the drawing room; it gave Greg the willies too, and continued around the corner. Greg waved John after him with his chin, but stuck his head into the kitchen while John continued on.

Mrs Potts was a flurry of motion, preparing this and plating that. Despite being their housekeeper not their cook, she was taking a kitchen knife to a cucumber with a proficiency that made Greg decide he never wanted to meet her in a dark alley on the wrong end of the blade.

“We’ll be in the… um…”

“Conservatory, dear. Yes, that’s fine. Won’t be a minute.”

“Right, um, thanks.” Greg ducked out, still not comfortable being served tea rather than making it himself, especially when it came with little sandwiches, scones, and pinwheels, which it looked like this one would.

There were low voices in the conservatory. Greg paused to give them time to finish talking about whatever it was, but the murmur cut off abruptly and Sherlock’s voice ordered him in.

John was the one who kindly, though precisely, opened the door for him and returned to his seat in exacting steps.

Other than that first day, Greg hadn’t used ‘the back room’. In fact, other than the two, now three, bedrooms, the bathrooms, kitchen, and library, Greg didn’t use much of the house. He had yet to go out in, or even really remember the existence of, the garden.

“She’ll bring it in here.” Greg said awkwardly. “Hope you’re hungry, cause she’s whipping up tons of…” He trailed off, then rallied. “Right, so thanks for coming. Uh, this is Ben.”

“Ben?” Sherlock raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

Greg scrambled to remember whether he’d given John Ben’s name, but couldn’t pull the information out of his brain. It didn’t mean John had told Sherlock anyway.

“Abernathy,” he admitted, “but I’m not yelling that up the stairs in a few years’ time.”

The afore mentioned Ben yawned and looked startled at himself.

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a sneer and he glared at Greg through cold, hard eyes.

“Abernathy,” he repeated in guilt inducing tones.

It took Greg longer than he wanted to admit to remember that heartfelt session of mental gymnastics over the table at 221B before Ben was born, before Sherlock had stopped speaking to him, before Mycroft had even left.

Before Sherlock started glaring at him like he’d failed, and let everyone down with a name.

“Abernathy Francois.” He met and held Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock didn’t stop sneering, but he did break eye contact before it became a staring match in acknowledgement. It wasn’t what Sherlock had wanted, or Greg either for that matter, but as what Sherlock had wanted was for his brother to throw years of self-sacrificing obedience in an attempt to make up to Mummy out the window… like Greg he could see the compromise and acknowledge that Greg hadn’t completely failed.

“Do you want to hold him?” Greg asked when no one said anything else to fill the silence.

John glanced at Sherlock, then held out his arms wordlessly, looking more like he was going to face a firing squad than be handed a baby. None of the tension left his body once Ben was in his arms, though it did seem to change a little so John looked less stiff and more brittle.

He didn’t say anything for some time, just sat there ramrod straight watching Ben blinking sleepily up at him.

“Hello,” John said eventually. “I’m your Uncle John. Ben.” He took a deep breath, then repeated “Ben.”

He didn’t say anything more, just sat and continued to watch Ben watch him, until all of a sudden he seemed to start and come back to himself.

“Right, right. Well, Sherlock?” John held Ben out toward Sherlock.

Ben wriggled in his grasp and John instinctively pulled him close, flinching as he realised how close he was holding him. The tension broke through whatever remaining amazement or good will that had up to then held Ben’s childish grumpiness in check and he began to add loud pitched protests to his treatment to the air.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Greg crooned to Ben, scooping his son out of a bewildered John’s arms. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Ben just wailed louder, waving his fists in the air and his little face scrunched up in disgust at the world.

“Shh, shh…” Greg began walking around the room, holding Ben close and gently jigging him a little. “I know you’re tired, but it’s okay. Shh.”

He was vaguely aware of Mrs Potts delivering her rather extensive cream tea and filling Sherlock’s plate to the brim. In retrospect Greg wasn’t sure whether the fact that Sherlock accepted the plate and ate everything on it said more about Mrs Potts’s position in the family, or Sherlock’s insecurities. As it was he didn’t even notice until later.

By the time Ben wore himself down to plaintive hiccups the tea was almost gone. Not the food, Sherlock had eaten everything on his plate and nothing more and Greg didn’t think John had touched anything, but the actual tea had been drunk and what was in Greg’s cup looked cold.

“I’ll have to put him down for a nap in a sec. Sorry, he crashes quickly when he goes.” Greg walked back over to the couches. “Last chance to hold him.”

They both looked at Sherlock expectantly, who in turn looked quite happy for Ben to go to his nap without having to engage in physical contact with the pint sized human.

“Come on, Uncle Sherlock.” Greg leant over and deposited Ben in his arms, not giving him time to refuse. “Your turn.”

Ben looked as startled at being in Sherlock’s arms as Sherlock was to so suddenly have him there. Certainly Sherlock was no expert on baby holding. He was probably the only Omega on the planet who looked more natural cradling a skull than a living infant.

“Not like that,” Greg with all his two week wisdom corrected him. “Under there and,., that’s right, support his head there.”

Holding him properly meant Ben was brought closer to Sherlock’s body, close enough to really catch his scent. That’s what Greg assumed anyway, because even he could tell the second Ben’s interest in this new person sharpened. Unsurprising for a Holmes, even a young one. Surprisingly, he went completely limp, entirely relaxed in Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock blinked in shock and raised a finger, undoubtedly to do what he always did to objects reacting unexpectedly and poke Ben, but at the unconditional trust ended up gently stroking one cheek instead. Ben sighed and, reassured by the presence of someone who to his instinctive understanding was Mummy-but-not, closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Maybe Ben was missing Mycroft more than he’d thought, Greg frowned. Ben was certainly never so willing to settle down for a nap for him.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered.

“Huh?” Greg blinked in confusion.

Sherlock had to swallow several times before opening his mouth resulted in speech.

“Yes,” he repeated.

A weight seemed to slide off John’s shoulders as his body finally lost its military form. With a relieved exhale he moved across the sofa so his leg was brushing Sherlock’s and stretched up to drop a kiss in the inky curls. Until they suddenly were, Greg hadn’t noticed the space between them as they avoided touch.

“I’ll make the appointment tomorrow.” John murmured into Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock nodded, watching the minute twitches and plays of muscles as Ben dreamt. John smiled, resting against Sherlock as he finally looked at Ben and seemed to really see him.

“He’s gorgeous, Greg.”

Greg couldn’t have stopped himself preening if he’d tried. Not that he did try.

“Thanks, he is, isn’t he? His eyes are getting darker. They were almost colourless when he was born.”

“That happens.” John agreed.

He brushed a hand lightly over the fine brown strands covering Ben’s head. Sherlock just watched, eyes darting over his nephew’s body as he stored whatever data and performed whatever calculations he was deeming important for his mind palace.

“So what’s happening once you go back to work tomorrow?” John asked.

“Mrs Potts has moved down here for a bit,” Greg settled in his seat, “so she’ll be watching him while we’re at work. I’m going to have to cut down on the overtime. Mycroft’s been back at a reasonable hour most days so far, so we’ll have evenings and weekends with him.

“Won’t be enough,” he sighed, “but nothing would be so… It’s not like I can quit my job or anything.”

“Definitely not.” John agreed, a little too firmly for Greg’s tastes.

He cocked an eyebrow as best he could and John quickly returned to gazing at Ben.

“I think,” John changed the subject, “he’s ended up with Sherlock’s lips, more than yours or Mycroft’s.”

Always willing to talk about Ben, Greg happily let him.

“That’s what I thought.” Greg’s breath caught as Ben screwed up his face at something in his dreams he didn’t like, but all he did was nestle slightly closer into Sherlock and settle back down. “He certainly seems to like you.”

“Instinctual pack behaviour. In the absence of his bearer he’s automatically seeking comfort from the closest genetic match in the vicinity.” Sherlock’s haughty tones didn’t cover up the pleasure and warmth underneath.

He ran a long finger down Ben’s blue clad foot and watched him twitch.

“I suppose when there’s no better cases on offer you might be able to impose upon our time when Mrs Potts is otherwise occupied.” Sherlock tested Ben’s reaction to the finger down the other foot. “We will of course require suitably complex and interesting cases in compensation afterwards.”

“I think you just said you’d be happy to babysit because you love Ben and I so much.” Greg tapped his fingers idly on the arm of his chair.

“For cases.” Sherlock clarified with a frown.

“Because you love Ben and I so much.” Greg repeated. “You want cases, talk to your brother. I’m not giving you murders to look after my son.”

“They don’t have to be murders.” Sherlock muttered. “Just interesting.”

“No cases, and _no_ experiments, on or around him.” Greg waved a finger sternly in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock looked like protesting, but Ben shifted in his sleep drawing Sherlock’s attention back down.

“I’ll talk to Mycroft about the cases.” He grumbled.

“You do that.” Greg smiled and stood, picking up the tea pot. “Now how about some fresh tea?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening everyone. Sorry I'm a day late, but there was this little music competition called Eurovision on over the weekend that rather stole my time and attention. I do love it, and there were good entries this year! Go Conchita!!! My three favourite acts all were in the top ten, so I'm happy. 
> 
> Anyway, not the point and the Americans are probably going Huh at this stage. I did edit this while watching the voting, so there are probably all sorts of typos I missed while cheering the douze pointes. 
> 
> Oh, while we're on that. Does anyone speak French? I need some translation done for later in the story (spoilers negotiable) and it has been a long time since my year 12 French (and I was never close to fluent AND they never taught us any of these words!). Any volunteers?
> 
> Warnings for this chapter Dub-con! We're not into the Non-Con yet, but it's Dub-Con. From that, you've probably gathered we're back into the sex. We're also going to start exploring some gender role issues. If you're confused, it'll make sense when you read the chapter. Sorry, really not sure how to describe it, but currently it's not a big thing, I don't think, so it's more like a pre-warning. 
> 
> Anyway, sorry again for the delay.

The way to avoid questions was probably not to put a photograph of him and Ben dead centre of his desk in a nice flashy new frame. Nonetheless, that was exactly what Greg did because, even if he was at work and couldn’t have Ben with him, he could at least have a photograph.

Leaving that morning had been hard, not the least because Ben had seemed to sense the next day would be important and had spent the night before crying and refusing to sleep, no matter what his parents tried.

He’d been fine asleep in Sherlock’s arms; he’d been quietly sleeping in his crib while Sherlock and Greg argued in hushed voices about whether nursery rhymes were more appropriate than Bach at Ben’s age. He’d been back to happy and cheerful when he’d woken and John had played with him on the floor while Sherlock and Greg argued over whether or not Peek-a-boo would damage his intelligence. He’d been ecstatic when Mycroft had returned home and Greg had joined John on the floor while Sherlock and Mycroft argued about appropriate compensation for babysitting.

It was only after – after John and Sherlock left, after feeding, after bath time, that he’d decided something was not right, and nothing Greg could do would settle him until his wailing had summoned Mycroft from his home office to help the bewildered Alpha. Not that the Omega had had any better luck with their recalcitrant son, who was still throwing a tantrum and refusing to settle when Greg re-emerged from the bathroom in his pyjamas.

A suitably chastened Mycroft had no better ideas than Greg. Walking, humming, feeding, cuddles… none of it helped and Mrs Potts was out for the evening at a friend’s.

Eventually Ben had cried himself out, but as soon as he was placed in the cot…

Mrs Potts suggested taking him for a drive when she eventually returned. It had worked… until the car stopped.

Greg had spent the rest of his night sleeping in shifts, genuinely worried there was something wrong with Ben. Leaving the exhausted little tyke with Mrs Potts that morning…

He wondered whether he should call…

Yes, he’d call, straight after Sally left.

Sally sat opposite Greg, legs crossed at the knee. Her arms were crossed as she regarded him stonily. In all fairness, he had just disappeared for two weeks with no warning., so

Greg just waited, letting Sally glare holes into his forehead until she was ready to talk.

Maybe he should text, not call, in case Ben was asleep. He’d have to get Mrs Potts’s number from Anthea, but…

Did she have a number? He assumed she owned a mobile, but she was occasionally rather-

“So this is why you’ve been so weird, oh, the last nine months?” Sally broke in coldly. She didn’t need to look at the picture to make it clear what she meant. “He looks like you.”

Greg’s heart gave a proud pitter-patter before he tamped it down. “That’s a bit hard given he’s not mine.”

The first denial. Would it ever get easier?

Sally looked at him sceptically.

“Meet the brand new baby Holmes.” Greg handed her the photo so she could look properly. “Mycroft’s kid.”

Sally studied the photograph and looked up with the firm eyes of the determined.

“Are you gay, Sir?”

That had not been quite the question Greg had been expecting, so his entirely eloquent reply was ‘huh?’

“You’ve been going to dinner for ages, you suddenly move in with him, and now you have a baby together.” Sally’s detective stare wasn’t very comfortable on the receiving end. “It’s fine if you are, but if you don’t want people to know you may want to tone it down a little.”

“No, no, uh, no.” Greg shook his head. “Just friends. The baby, Ben, is just a coincidence.”

“A coincidence? There’s a photo of him on your desk.” Sally looked sceptical.

“That’s because he’s adorable.” Greg replied. “Come on, look at that little nose and those itty ears and tell me he’s not.”

Sally shrugged, but didn’t deny it.

“Ben?” She asked eventually. “That’s a very normal name for a Holmes.”

“Ah well,” Greg winced, “it’s Abernathy actually.”

“I like Ben.” Sally put the photo back on the desk and returned to coolly regarding Greg.

Accepting that the interlude was over Greg started asking through their cases and noting Sally’s clipped, professional replies in return. His two week break had clearly not helped his relationship with his sergeant so soon on the back of that last fiasco with the Carson/Smith case.

Gregson’s response to the photo was to grunt and tell Greg he owed him the next four murders because Gregson had had to work stupid hours while Greg was away to cover Greg’s his caseload. Greg told Gregson that he could just call Sherlock and be done with them.

Gregson shrugged and reminded Greg that some of them didn’t piss off their superiors for fun. Greg had just snorted. Neither of them mentioned that any other time a sergeant as close to inspector as Sally was would have been given the chance to step up for two weeks.

Dimmock had poked his haughty little head in too, and stammered and blushed his way through his congratulations. He’d managed a bit better once Greg corrected him on Ben’s (fake) parentage, but still hadn’t quite managed to sound completely sure of what he was saying.

“See what I have to deal with when you’re not here?” Gregson had growled, and dragged the stuttering Dimmock unceremoniously from Greg’s little fishbowl of an office.

The rest of the day had been quite simple. Neither Packenham nor Mulgrave had made appearances, both apparently at some police conference, so there were no awkward encounters with either of Greg’s superiors, and people were treating him mostly like normal, Sally’s malcontent one of the last bastions of pain left over from Greg’s miraculous career resurrection.

Mrs Potts called him before he could texst her and roundly scolded him for thinking about Ben instead of concentrating at work. He was just fine, and Greg could see him when he got home.

Greg in turn resigned himself to the fact that apparently everyone who worked for Mycroft was psychic, especially when he received an unsolicited text with Mrs Potts’s mobile details from Anthea ‘just in case’.

He tried to concentrate on work, he really did. He even stayed until ten past, mostly because everyone in the bullpen seemed to have their eyes glued to his door (he was certainly the current grist for the rumour mill).

Escaping felt like a sigh of relief, and entering home like a breath of fresh air.

Mycroft was already there, slowly rocking backwards and forward in the chair as Ben fed. It wasn’t often Greg saw Mycroft feed Ben directly. Most of the time he used the seemingly endless supply of expressed milk in the fridge or waited until Greg went for a shower. This, Mycroft sitting peacefully while Ben fednursed, was a rare sight.

“Hey,” Greg pressed his lips lightly to Ben and then Mycroft’s hair.

He liked to think Mycroft pressed back against him a little, welcoming the affection instead of just tolerating it, but that was a dangerous train of thought so he made himself stop and turned to Ben.

“How is he?” He asked quietly, watching Ben suckle at Mycroft’s chest. “Was he okay today?”

“He was unsettled.” Mycroft replied. “I’m informed he was not shy at making his displeasure known, but then that is to be expected. He seems to resemble Sherlock in temperament, not just looks, and my brother has never been shy about demanding his due.”

Greg chuckled lightly, and brazenly placed another kiss on Mycroft’s neatly arranged hair. “Let’s hope not too much like Sherlock or his teenage years will be hell.”

Mycroft shuddered delicately and turned to inspect Ben’s progress. Ben contemplated the offered nipple then screwed up his face, apparently satisfied.

“Just like Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed, easing Ben up to his shoulder. “Your eating habits are all over the place.”

Greg held out a hand, offering to take Ben to burp him, but Mycroft elegantly waved him off, already standing to take care of it. With a shrug Greg conceded and collapsed down on the couch, elbow propped up on the pillows reminiscent of an emperor surveying his harem. Greg could feel a low, warm hum developing and spreading through his body as he watched Mycroft deftly care for their child.

The feeling was hard to describe and even harder to define. It wasn’t lust, though there certainly were components of that involved. It was too lazy, too satisfied to be lust, but too warm and active to be compared to the afterglow either. Nor was it love, though Greg loved both of the Holmeses before him fiercely.

It wasn’t affection or protectiveness or possession, though again they were all arguably components. The closest Greg could get to classifying it was that lazy weekend morning he’d stolen, wrapped around his pregnant love’s body as the room saturated with their combined scents.

This was even stronger, as though the Alpha in him delighted not only in the fact that he’d sired a healthy, happy child, but also that his strong, amazing mate was so good with him. Watching Mycroft work, so assured, so in control, was always a sight, but to have that same competence extend to their child… Oh his Alpha was very pleased and prepared to bask in their mate’s presence as Greg’s Sub so desperately desired.

Mycroft met Greg’s gaze and for a long moment the same conflagration of emotions blazed out, shifting the atmosphere of the room to a low burn even as Mycroft’s circuit carried him out of eye contact.

The simmer continued as Ben slowly gave in to a full stomach and long day, eyes drooping and eventually closing. The wait would have been tortuous if not for the softer edge to the burn... contentment, Greg eventually identified it as.

Mycroft gently lowered Ben into the cot, pulling the covers over him in case of a draft. Then, and only then, did he turn to Greg.

The feeling in the room sharpened as he did, walking towards Greg with a more predatory stride than the metronomic pace he’d set walking Ben to sleep. Mycroft’s waistcoat hung open, undone so he could perform the same task to the tailored shirt loosened underneath and left wide. His tie was gone, abandoned on the chest of drawers so he could feed Ben without it in the way and the sight of each perfectly fitted and prohibitively expensive article of bespoke clothing so casually open from neck to waist for the sole purposes of their son…

Greg had been swollen since he had first arranged himself carelessly on the suite of pillows under him; plump and heavy, but not immediate. At the visual he was now presented with, the knowledge that Mycroft’s nipple just visible at the edge of the fabric was so red and raw looking was because his Omega, his Dom, his Mycroft had been feeding his son… His groin tightened and insistently began filling our further.

“You enjoy watching me taking care of our son.” Mycroft stopped in front of him and raised an implacable brow. “What is it, your son, your Dom, all home together? How very caveman of you, Gregory.”

“You could make signing paperwork sexy.” Greg retorted, still splayed lazily across the couch. “Besides, you liked me watching. Your son, your Sub, all inside your territory? How very primitive of you, Mycroft.”

The eyebrow lifted higher and Mycroft tilted his head challengingly, stopping so he loomed over Greg, who in turn tilted his head back and up, broad grin stretching across his face. He knew, just knew, from the way Mycroft was studying him that if he’d had the crop in easy reach it would have been dragging over Greg’s cheek and lips in sensual warning.

“Abernathy is asleep.” Mycroft stepped back, but his eyes still burned.

“Mmm,” Greg hummed, feeling slightly drunk. “We should leave before we wake Ben up.”

As always there was a vague disapproval at the truncation of Ben’s unwieldy name, but more for show than serious disagreement, whether because Mycroft didn’t mind Greg calling him Ben or because Mycroft just couldn’t muster the annoyance at that moment to be determined.

Greg pushed himself to standing on surprisingly steady limbs, almost colliding with Mycroft in doing so. The intangible connection between them narrowed to a heavy pulsing thread, beating in time with the arousal growing beneath Greg’s skin.

Holding Mycroft’s gaze as long as possible, he slowly walked backwards, pausing at the door to turn off the lights. Mycroft brushed past, fabric of his shirt and trousers rustling against Greg’s as he shut the door, shuffling both of them those last few steps out of the room.

With the first physical touch the connection ballooned out again, a syrupy mess that made it hard to breathe and left Greg feeling intoxicated down to his very bones. They stood there, lips a millimetre apart breathing the scents of each other, but just not quite touching skin to skin.

The only point of actual physical contact was their hands, freely roaming over arms and torsos as the tension ratcheted higher and higher and higher with every caught nail and sigh of cloth.

“Are you okay for this?” Greg murmured. “Medically I mean, are you healed?”

“There are other options.” Mycroft murmured back.

The stillness lasted a precise second longer before their mouths connected.

Mycroft tasted of warmth and home, even with the particular bitterness that accumulated by the end of the day. Greg knew he probably tasted of cheap stale coffee, so he certainly had no right to complain, and underneath it all there was still that peculiar note that seemed hardwired into his brain to be Mycroft and therefore to be craved.

The laconic simmer kept their actions controlled to a slower sensual exploration until the natural end of the kiss when they both drew back. When they came back together it was as an attack of teeth and colliding desperation.

How long, Greg wondered as his hands clawed wildly at Mycroft’s belt, how long since they’d last been together like this. Months, he decided before his attention was comprehensively stolen by Mycroft’s tongue doing something oh so sinful to his ear.

“Jesus Christ.” He tried to step, start them moving out of the hallway into the bedroom.

Mycroft used the movement to capture him close, pinning Greg tight against him, Greg’s hands digging into their stomachs.

“Too long.” Greg fumbled for Mycroft’s lips.

“Most assuredly.” His Dom peppered his mouth with tight lips, teasingly denying him the depth Greg wanted.

“Too many syllables,” Greg hugged disapprovingly, “and much too much clothing.”

“We should fix that.” Mycroft ran those fluttering little bites down Greg’s neck.

“I’m trying too.” Greg snarled.

He wrenched his hands out from between their bodies and buried them in Mycroft’s hair, forcing him to hold still enough to kiss.

It was a duel he lost, Mycroft claiming his mouth the second Greg’s lips met his, but at least it was a duel they had and moaning under the assault, Greg didn’t really mind.

“ **Bedroom**.” Mycroft pulled back, almost shoving Greg towards the door with his eagerness.

Greg started in on his clothing as he moved, fumbling open his shirt as fast as desperate fingers could manage. Reaching the bed, he threw himself on it, reclining as Mycroft came in and dragged his cheap off the rack shirt off him. Mycroft taking care of the shirt, Greg undid his belt and threw it to the side. He managed his button, but then his hands were back in Mycroft’s hair and his mouth full of Mycroft’s tongue and _Mycroft_ undid the rest.

“Off.” Mycroft lifted himself off Greg, allowing him to cant his hips up and shimmy the trousers and pants down.

“Return the – mumph.” Greg managed before he was pinned back on the bed by Mycroft’s body weight and questing mouth.

He hissed as Mycroft’s belt caught, luckily nowhere too sensitive.

“What should I do to you?” Mycroft gasped out around sucking marks over Greg’s chest.

“Anything you like.” Greg panted back. “So long as you’re naked.”

“Anything?” There was a wicked gleam in Mycroft’s eye as he shifted backwards, biting the soft skin of Greg’s inner thigh.

“Yes, anything.” Greg swore, biting his lip as Mycroft gave him a harder disapproving nip.

“Well then…” Mycroft trailed off and kisses rained up Greg’s leg.

“Just do it quickly.” Greg insisted, rocking up to try and press himself closer to Mycroft.

“You are shockingly behaved tonight.” Mycroft frowned in amused disapproval.

“Then please, Master, punish me.” Greg whined. “Just do something.”

“Hands and knees.” Mycroft slapped the side of Greg’s leg, urging him over.

Greg turned willingly, eagerly, through slightly disappointed they weren’t just going to jump straight to sex and scratch other itches later.

“ **Wider**.” Mycroft ordered and Greg moved his hands and legs wider.

Not wide enough. Mycroft fastened a wide leather cuff around Greg’s wrist and yanked the chain up to attach it to the bed. It pulled Greg off balance and he’d barely time to adjust his weight before his other arm was similarly attached. The chains were too short to allow him to rest comfortably on all fours, just the wrong side of his centre of gravity to easily balance.

The excess chain hanging next to the bed was testament to Mycroft’s ability to judge lengths to perfection and the fact that the chains were deliberately too short.

Greg hadn’t expected similar for his feet, forcing his knees further from his arms and further apart than he’d held them, resting on the invisible marks Mycroft had determined.

“Beautiful. Mycroft trailed a finger along the muscles of Greg’s back and cupped his arse.

“Thank you, Master.” Greg blushed lightly as his cock bobbed obscenely in the air. He was extremely glad his slight tan would hide the flush.

“One last thing, I think.” Mycroft held the black silk blindfold delicately, winding it over Greg’s eyes, blocking the light.

“You will notice Gregory that the restraints would let you collapse onto the bed, if you were willing to fall on your nose.” Mycroft’s voice wrapped around him, seemingly from everywhere at once, cradling him. “This you **will not** do. You will remain on all fours, until you are released. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.” Greg replied.

He could already feel the light burn developing in his shoulders from holding the pose. By the end, his muscles would be in agony.

Mycroft’s hand returned, silky cool with lubricant as he fondled Greg, stroking him lazily and leaving a cool tingle as the air rushed past. His hands continued further, rolling Greg’s balls and tugging gently on the sparse wiry hair. Then it left and Greg could hear a thick squelch as Mycroft coated his fingers again. That, Greg absently noted, was a lot of lube for a hand-

Pressure resting at his entrance.

“Have you ever done this before?” Mycroft asked, fingers dancing around Greg’s rim, almost tickling.

“No,” Greg managed around a gasp as Mycroft’s other hand returned to stroking his cock.

“Slowly then.” Mycroft’s fingers teased more.

The number of mixed feelings flowing through Greg made it hard to process. He’d never ever thought of penetrating himself, not even with his own fingers. The idea seemed inherently wrong and made his skin crawl – Alphas took, not were taken – but Mycroft’s fingers were contributing, a lot, to the low burn and fiery sparks of arousal.

His Sub side seemed to love the idea; the Alpha rejected it completely, and he wasn’t sure the trembling in his arms was all muscle strain anymore.

“Mycroft-” He gasped, as Mycroft’s first finger slid inside.

Logically he knew it would be Mycroft’s pinkie, maybe his index finger, but it was wrong and splitting him open and decidedly _not big enough_.

He whimpered, partly in pleasure, mostly in confusion as Mycroft began to gently stretch him open.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you,” Mycroft asked deceptively mildly, “one day? I’m going to order you to come home, on time, and have the most thorough shower of your life. You will clean yourself out completely, and then wait for me, kneeling on my floor. When I return, I’m going to tie you to this bed, not quite like this, with your arse offered high, and I’m going to use my tongue on you.”

Greg whimpered again, as under the guise of a particularly pleasurable twist over the head of his staff Mycroft introduced another finger.

“I’ll kneel there behind you, tracing your entrance, flicking my tongue lightly over your tight ring. I’ll keep doing that, until you’re a writhing quivering mess before me, begging me to put something in you. I will, just the tip of my tongue, and you’ll beg, you’ll beg as I work you open, for more, that it’s not enough, but you won’t get it, not until I’m satisfied that you’re well and truly sodden and open before me.”

That whimper was definitely arousal. It was perverse, he was an Alpha, it was wrong, but that somehow made it more arousing, and… Greg moaned as fireworks set off behind him eyes.

Prostate. That was definitely his prostate and no wonder Mycroft always jumped when he managed the right angle cause Jesus Christ that felt nothing like the prostate exam he’d been forced into during his last medical.

“When you are,” Mycroft’s lust-deepened voice continued, “when you’re so wet and so open you’re helpless underneath me, so desperate for anything substantial, anything longer and thicker than my tongue, do you know what I’ll do then, Gregory?”

Greg panted heavily, too overwhelmed with rightwrongnoamazingmorenogodyes to answer.

“I’ll test that you’re open enough, just, like this,” Mycroft punctuated each word with a stroke of those long, elegant fingers, “and then…”

The fingers disappeared and Greg positively keened at their absence.

“And then, Gregory,” Mycroft continued right in his ear, “I’ll fuck you so hard through the mattress you’ll leave a permanent imprint.”

As emphasis, something much thicker pressed into him, almost sending Greg crashing to his elbows. For a second Greg thought Mycroft had thrust into him and was now lodged balls deep in Greg’s arse, but no, Mycroft was next to him, holding his head tenderly between his hands and whispering how good Greg was and how proud of him he was.

“Almost there, Gregory.” Mycroft stroked his hair, gently but tugging sharply at the end of each stoke, keeping Greg on the edge rather than let him plateau into calm.

Tilting Greg’s head, Mycroft searched his face, assessing something.

“Almost.” Mycroft kissed his forehead gently. “Let’s get you all the way down, shall we?”

Greg lost track of him as Mycroft shifted away from the bed. His head was heavy, and he realised he was close to subspace. He’d missed his descent, preoccupied by the conflict inside himself, conflict reignited by the reality that he was in fact ‘getting off’ on this.

The crop trailed up his arm allowing him to tell what was next and anticipate the next move as it lazily traced over his back. The longer it took before the stroke fell, the more Greg tensed waiting for it.

“Relax.”

An order. The stroke wouldn’t come until he’d obeyed.

He tried to find something else to focus on, but all that did was highlight the plug in his arse, which made him tense more, more, more with its wrongness.

“ **Relax**.”

He grabbed at the wave of calm the order produced and threw himself under it, submerging himself as deeply as possibly away from thought.

He needed to not think. Thought let him focus, _made_ him focus on the intrusion. He hadn’t minded too much when it had been Mycroft’s fingers (yes, he had, no, he hadn’t, yes, he had), but the silicon wedge was not his Dom and without even that tenuous bit of rightness about it the whole thing threatened to rip the Zen like state he’d almost reached far away.

It wasn’t enough, the order, but it was enough for Mycroft, who’d provided stinging lines over his buttocks, 1-2-3-4, in quick succession. Each line allowed him to dive deeper, forcing himself frantically under. Every stroke shifted the plug inside him, just a little, just enough to send fireworks up behind his eyes.

Eventually he got far enough that he couldn’t force himself under any further. Any extra depth would have to come from Mycroft, Mycroft who was petting his hair and praising him feely the way Greg had always hoped to hear and with every word was ripping Greg the other way, forcing him to struggle down to that tipping point again and again. It felt wrong, it made him think, getting praised for something he didn’t want (but he did) and was wrong (so wrong). Every time he tried to relax, the pleasure, the emotion, the damnable plug pulled him up and away from the precious oblivion he craved.

“You’re doing so well.” Mycroft kissed his forehead, laying the crop on the bed.

He reached behind and gently eased the plug from Greg’s body, still murmuring praise as he moved around and sank slowly into Greg’s arse.

Greg had hoped it would be easier with Mycroft instead of the silicon, and it was, was easier to concentrate on the fact that his Dom wanted this, that it was giving his Dom pleasure. It made it easier for the Sub, enough to send the Alpha just a little back.

Enough to hang at the tipping point.

He was tired, so tired. He felt like his mental self was hanging slumped, worn out from fighting himself. The pleasure from Mycroft’s cock and hands washed over his body, but not his exhausted self. He barely realised he was coming, the orgasm feeling like someone else’s.

“Gor-“ Mycroft was cut off by a wail over the baby monitor. “Shit.”

He pulled out, still hard, running a hand over Greg’s back so Greg could still place him in the room.

“Eyes closed, Gregory.” The blindfold was tugged off, causing Greg to squint at the sudden light. “I said eyes closed. Here, one arm, the other. I’ll get your legs.”

Mycroft hustled around the bed, motions speeding up as Ben’s grumpy cries grew more petulant over the monitor.

“There. Lie down, Gregory, don’t try to move.” Mycroft flashed in front of Greg’s eyes, emerald dressing gown fluttering around him. “That’s it, just stay there.”

“Ben?” Greg lifted his head groggily, scrambling to gather his thoughts after his orgasm.

Mycroft must have interpreted it as the slow ascent from Subspace, because he smoothed Greg’s hair back and dropped another lingering kiss. “ **Stay**. I’ll see what he needs.”

“I can-”

“ **Stay.** Sleep, Gregory.” Mycroft pulled his robe tight and swirled out of the room.

A few seconds later, Greg could hear Mycroft shushing Ben, picking him up out of the crib and jigging him lightly. With the attention, Ben was already quietening down.

Just wanted his Mummy, Greg pushed himself under the covers and let his eyes fall shut. Mind clearing, the thoughts, the conflicting emotions were already crowding over him.

Sleep, he told himself, a sentiment echoed by Mycroft on the other end of the baby monitor. Sleep, and deal with the nest of vipers he’d fallen into tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. It's a really short one this week, sorry for that. It looked a LOT longer in my notebook before I got rid of all the cross outs and edits. 
> 
> No particular warnings for this one

“Okay, so you’ve got everything in the bag. Are you sure you’re good to do this?” Greg juggled holding Ben and passing the massive baby bag filled to bursting with supplies to John.

“Yes, Greg.” John sent him an amused smile. “We can handle one day of babysitting.”

“Are you sure? Because Mrs Potts isn’t that sick or I can take a day, or Mycroft can, or something.”

Waking up to find Mrs Potts not already fussing in the kitchen should really have been the first warning, but it wasn’t until he had run, showered, eaten and attended to Ben that it really occurred to Greg something might be wrong. Mycroft, it appeared, suffered from a similar blind spot and hadn’t noticed his housekeeper’s absence until Greg pointed it out to him. That was when the low fever and runny nose had been uncovered, leaving the two of them hunting up alternative baby minders last minute.

“We will be fine.” John reassured him. “He will be fine.”

“Are you sure you and Sherlock-”

-          Swooped down, plucked Ben from Greg’s arms in an efficient raven like jab, and was headed back into the flat before Greg realised he had appeared, Ben already snuggling contentedly into Sherlock’s “Mummy-like” scent without protest. Greg on the other hand, did protest.

“Relax.” John smiled. ”Go to the Yard. We’ll call if anything comes up.”

“Promise?” Greg shifted his weight nervously.

“Promise. Now go!” John laughed.

Reluctantly Greg did as he was told, making his way slowly down the stairs with as little wincing as possible. Despite the preparation, he still felt a bit raw after the previous night’s activities, to say the least.

“Greg,” John called after him.

Greg spun around on the bottom step, panicked the two of them had changed their minds about minding Ben. John balanced nervously on the top step, before uncertainly making his way down, licking his lip.

“Okay,” he started nervously, “tell me to butt out, but I just wanted to point out that while it’s great you and Mycroft have managed to work around that still healing from the baby thing, you might want to work on walking without a limp if you’re going to bottom. That’s all!” He held his up his hands. “Just going to the Yard, maybe, you know, yeah…”

He was mortified. The physical pleasure from last night hadn’t lasted long and felt dirty, polluting. The tight knot lodged in the left side of his chest, pressed up against his heart, had twisted and burnt, acidic, enhancing the feeling of wrong, and now John, _John_ , had noticed, sending shame ricocheting through him. The idea that John had noticed…

“You’re embarrassed.” John shook his head. “You don’t need to be.”

It’s perverted, Greg wanted to say. Wrong.

“Really, Greg, you’re consenting adults. I’m just warning you that you’re being a little obvious, that’s all.” John tried to look encouraging. “First time and all, I’m guessing. You’ll adjust, just until then…”

“How do you know?” Greg blurted out.

It was supposed to be accusatory, defensive, but came out panicked and desperate.

“You’re not the only couple who changes things up.” John waggled his eyebrows, trying to get Greg to smile.

It just left him wide eyed and guppy like.

John sighed. “Just, be a little more closed book and less neon sign, yeah?”

Greg nodded and fled.

All too soon he was back, hovering outside the door and wondering how great a chance he had that John had stepped out to get something and wouldn’t be home. Almost nil he thought reluctantly, and the tense ball in his chest bit in again.

The door flew open and John blinked in shock as his mind caught up with the fact there was someone in his way.

“Greg.” His face broke into a smile. “You got out early. I was just heading out for milk. Come on in. They’re upstairs.”

Cursing viciously in his head, Greg followed slowly behind, not really caring that his footsteps were heavy enough to disturb Mrs Hudson’s evening program. If he’d just stayed at work ten minutes longer…

Sherlock was sprawled on the carpet, legs kicking in the air as he waggled his fingers over a delighted Ben’s head. Ben just kept laughing and squealing and waving his own hands and legs whenever the elegant fingers were close enough to tickle his stomach.

“Ah, Lestrade,” Sherlock spoke as they walked in, almost covered by Ben’s lilting squeal. “He seems particularly fond of dancing phalanges and Tchaikovsky. Simplistic tastes are to be expected at his age I suppose.”

“I like Tchaikovsky.” John sounded wounded.

“Yes, but he at least has a chance of growing out of it. Your Sperm Donor is here, Ben.” Sherlock finally looked up at the two of them standing in the doorway.

He paused, head on one side contemplating Lestrade, until Ben squealed in protest and he resumed raising and lowering his mobile fingers, eliciting a squeal of distinct happiness.

“Now, Ben, pay attention,” he started, “your donor-”

“Uncle, Sherlock, we talked about this.” John reproached him.

“I’m his uncle. Lestrade is responsible for half his genetic makeup.” Sherlock waved John’s reproving sigh aside. “Stressed and limping slightly, but not from work. Now in your Uncle John they are always connected to emotions, do stop scowling John, but in Lestrade it’s usually related to work.

“Usually, but not in this case as there are no stressful cases at work nor has he had an injury, you can tell from his suit. Therefore, it’s likely something else. From the slight stubble rash along his neck, it’s most likely from being penetrated by your mother; don’t get a limp like that any other way.”

“Sherlock,” John hissed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and completely missing the point, moved his hands to cover Ben’s ears.

“Now from the combination of the blood rushing to his face, the fact he looks like he’s constipated, and the fact he is attempting to stand as far away from your Uncle as possible without making it obvious, we can deduce that your father is embarrassed this has been discovered.

“Why? It’s not like I’ve never tied John up before, as I’m sure he let you know this morning in an attempted reciprocation for the awkward-”

“Sherlock!” John broke in.

“Well you did.” Sherlock retorted stubbornly. “I’m surprised it’s taken them this long, Lestrade being a Sub and all.”

“Yes, but…” John scrubbed his hands over his face in exasperation.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” Sherlock insisted. “Mycroft was never going to only receive. He’s a Dom. Besides, it’s very limiting and he does fancy himself creative.”

“Sherlock, maybe Greg’s embarrassed because he didn’t want to talk to you about it. Most people don’t share their sex lives with ever- don’t snort Sherlock. They don’t, and I don’t care how many psychosocial studies you’ve performed, Facebook is not proof otherwise. I am so sorry, Greg.”

Greg was mortified. Partly at the fact it was being discussed; mostly at the fact that they both knew that he, an Alpha, had done _that_. His brain kept stumbling around it, wrong, wrong, wrong, and the knot kept burning and burning along with his face.

Sherlock didn’t look like he agreed with John’s assessment. He looked like he was going to vocally disagree and rip open all Greg’s thoughts about how perverted and wrong it was into the light in the most painful way possible, so Greg waved a hand and attempted to look calm rather than desperate to hide.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. All family yeah?” He winced, which John missed, sending Sherlock an ‘I told you so’ look, and Sherlock saw and went to open his mouth.

“Oh, so he tied you up, yeah?” He hurried to say, before Sherlock could say.

It was unthinkable. John was an Alpha and a Dom. Over the course of the day, Greg had reluctantly concluded that a case could be argued for what had occurred because he was a Sub after all, even if it were wrong, but there could be no such explanation for John, Dom and Alpha. He had to be misunderstanding.

It did distract Sherlock, whose eyes slid to John with a sinfully pleased smile.

“Oh, definitely.” John’s voice held no guile, no dissembling.

“There is nothing,” he continued walking forward, eyes locked on Sherlock and his voice deepening, “like knowing that even if you are bound, even if you can’t move, they are the ones performing, that you are in complete total and utter control.”

He reached Sherlock and Ben, drawing Sherlock to an upright kneeling position with no more than a twitch of a hand that then buried itself in his curls.

“The power,” John continued as Sherlock closed his eyes and nuzzled into John’s palm, “that you hold over another human being being so absolute that even without any way of enforcing it, no immediate discipline, you know that they will do exactly as ordered, be as completely consumed as if you held them…”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, gazing hazily up at John’s face. Subspace, Greg realised. Sherlock was hovering under the surface from nothing more than John’s dedicated attention.

“Get Ben’s bag for Greg.” John rumbled, voice dropped roughly. “Then go through.”

Without a word of acknowledgement Sherlock rose effortlessly to his feet and disappeared into the kitchen, returning to drop the baby bag Greg had left that morning at John’s feet. Bag delivered he headed back down the corridor, already stripping off his shirt as he went, letting it lazily fall to the floor when it would.

John knelt and picked up Ben, shouldering the baby bag at the same time.

“Here you go.” He handed Ben over, voice raw as he kissed Ben’s waving hands goodbye. “He ate an hour ago and napped from noon til three.”

“Thanks. I’m just gonna…” Greg shouldered the bag and backed out.

“Great plan. Bye.” John practically shut the door in Greg’s face.

“Alright, little man.” Greg hiked Ben further up his hip. “Let’s go home, yeah?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening everyone. So this is the chapter that made the other one short, because when that opportunity to add in John and Sherlock.. well, who wouldn't have taken that right? So coming up we have a bit of an interlude from all the angst with Greg and Mycroft for a brief dip into some sex between John and Sherlock.
> 
> Also, I am SO pleased to announce that this chapter has been looked over for me by theartofprose who has done an amazing job picking up what was otherwise quite a lacklustre but if writing. Given it was turned around in about 48 hours, I am certainly in awe of her abilities and I can't wait to see the improvement to the rest of the story as she kicks my butt into gear. Thank you, you are amazing!
> 
> Warnings: Consensual sex

John thumbed the lock shut after Greg, knowing it was tempting fate not to. Mrs Hudson generally knocked now, but a locked door was both more polite and more secure.

Slowly and precisely he strode through the flat, collecting the clothes his errant lover had left strewn down the hallway in his haste to divest himself of them. He didn’t mind the process. It gave him time to sink into the correct mindset, to think about what would happen.

Control. Freely given control. He didn’t feel like being tied down tonight, but his conversation with Greg had awakened an itch for that sweetly given surrender.

Upon entering the bedroom, he found Sherlock knelt next to the bed with his gaze fixed on the small black piece of tape that John had stuck to the carpet for just this purpose. Sometimes Sherlock needed time to lapse into Subspace, or a way to stay in the shallows when his brain wanted to dart around collecting details. Instead the tape offered a focus, a point an inch long rather than the whole room.

Walking over, John fetched the lube from the drawer and dropped a hand to Sherlock’s head, gently combing through the silky curls.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

He liked to check, to ensure Sherlock’s over active mind hadn’t changed in the short time he was out of John’s sight. Sherlock tilted his head back, nuzzling into his Dom’s hand, eyes half lidded in laconic delight.

He was ready.

“On the bed.” John instructed once he stopped scratching behind Sherlock’s ears. Who, with all the feline grace he so often displayed, rose and stretched to pose on the covers.

He looked magnificent, where he lay sprawled on his stomach in a careless expanse of pale limbs broken only by his dark curls and pants. One of the first things John had done after moving into Sherlock’s room was replace his olive green duvet cover with a scarlet wine variation that made his gorgeous lover border on unearthly.

“Beautiful.” John strode past the bed, pulling the chair they kept in the corner forward and adjusting the free standing mirror so the entirety of the glass was filled with the sight splayed out for him on the bed.

Then he sat, eyes flicking quickly to the mirror to double check his view.

“Arrange yourself, love.” He ordered, settling into the plush cushion. “Give me a show.”

Sherlock’s eyes glowed from the shadow cast by his curls, fallen over his face as he lifted his chin off his forearm.

“How would you like me, Captain?” he purred, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.

“On your back, legs towards me.”

Sherlock pushed up to all fours, arching like a cat before swinging his legs around and arranging himself artistically in a heap.

“Further up,” John ordered and Sherlock scooted up towards the head of the bed, tilting his upper body slightly towards John. “More.”

Obediently, Sherlock pulled the pillows into a tower. Reclined backwards, his chest was at a 45 degree angle to give John the best possible view. John smiled and leered at the body laid out for his pleasure. Sherlock really was in amazing shape. A little on the thin side, but not as gaunt as people seemed to expect he would be. Instead he was all whipcord muscle with surprisingly bountiful curves in amongst the angles.

“Perfect.” John leant back in his chair and firmly placed his hands on the arms. They wouldn’t be moving until this was over.

Recognising the signal to commence, Sherlock’s fingers rose to the waistband of his pants.

“Not yet,” John stopped him. “Tease me.”

With a small sigh of contentment, Sherlock’s fingers redirected, dancing lightly over the skin of his chest and neck. His head fell back, resting on the pillow behind, and one hand stroked the skin around his collar.

The light touches continued, delicate enough to ghost past and tantalise without the definite presence of the earlier touch, both elusive and arousing. A warm up.

The palpable tension slowly began to melt into liquefied molten arousal that swirled around the room rather than the tight thrumming connection they’d had in the living room. From his chair, John could see Sherlock’s cock beginning to rise, reacting to the concentrated attention from his Dom. The musical pattern of hitched sighs and shuddering breaths as Sherlock relaxed into his role was heightened by the slow drifting scent of sex wafting lazily around the room.

There was a slight twitch, a small spark, as Sherlock’s fingers traced over his nipples.

“Stay there,” John commanded, “until they’re quivering.”

Like any Omega, Sherlock had exceptionally sensitive nipples. Within moments of dedicated attention they were straining and erect, hard nubs that wanted a firmer touch than John had allowed, or would allow until the teasing sensation had Sherlock writhing on the covers.

The view in the mirror as just as evocative, providing a long view of Sherlock’s lean side, broken by the rising mound of his cock. The tense hard nubs on his chest had more definition from the side, letting John see how far they’d risen from the soft, shapeless things they’d been before. In the reflection, John watched Sherlock arch his back, straining into the phantom touches, but he kept his fingers hovering just out of reach, as he’d been ordered. Tossing his head, drew attention back to the long expanse of his neck and the dark collar John had fixed there and would never take off.

It also drew attention to how his throat was working, but no sound was being released from those plush bows, teeth sunk into one of them as Sherlock strained with the effort of maintaining his feather-light touch.

“Let me hear.”

As ordered, Sherlock released his lip and a hitched gasp shuddered free, followed by tremulous inhales and audible sighs. While the way he’d been biting into his plush lower lip, resisting the temptation to make any noise and struggling to stay silent, was a sight to behold, John much preferred the symphonic musicality of his pleasure. When John wanted silence he gagged Sherlock, not because he couldn’t be quiet, but because John couldn’t bear to miss even one moan that might fall past those lips and would always inevitably want to hear that voice scream.

The breathy sighs transitioned into swallowed moans and little high pitched squeaks as Sherlock arched his chest further, straining for a firmer touch he wasn’t allowed to use yet. John smiled as he drank in every increasingly voluble whimper.

Sherlock’s eyes had fallen closed as he traced his skin, but when John failed to give other orders they opened and his beseeching silver eyes begged to be allowed to do that little bit more. John smirked, staying silent, and with a mewl more pain than pleasure Sherlock’s eyes slid closed and fingers continued their dance, request denied.

He could orgasm from this, as John had spent a very enjoyable afternoon proving to his wayward Sub with nothing more than non-existent touches, his tongue, and a lot of time. By the end of the session Sherlock’s orgasm had seemed as much out of self-preservation as arousal, but it had thrown him so deep into slumber that he was still in Subspace when he woke, eight hours later.

John let his legs fall wide to accommodate his burgeoning erection. It was a very nice memory.

One Sherlock obviously remembered as well, because he ran one of those long fingers up to his mouth and dipped it inside to wet the skin. His finger then joined the others in the dance, occasionally running back for more moisture. One finger, then two, then three, until Sherlock was fellating each of his fingers in turn and applying them to his nipples with lightly pained cries.

Being an Omega, Sherlock didn’t leak the copious amounts of pre-cum that an Alpha did even out of Estrus, but a growing damp tip at the end of the rigid line of his cock could be seen straining in his pants nonetheless.

Pants that were blocking his view.

“Remove them.”

Sherlock’s hands dropped instantly to his waist and manoeuvred the fabric free with a low, sibilant exhale. His erection was just as heated, just as flushed, as John had pictured, bobbing in the air as Sherlock’s nimble toes dragged his pants the rest of the way down his leg and dropped them on the floor.

“Don’t touch,” John warned him, seeing Sherlock’s fingers head towards his cock.

With a groan Sherlock let his hands drop, his fingers flexing into the bedspread in agitation.

John loved this, loved the test of his control over Sherlock’s every move, the battle that raged in his Sub’s mind and always, always, fell on the side of submission. This was hardly the most challenging scenario John had put Sherlock through, but practice made perfect and they spent a lot of time practicing. Eventually Sherlock’s wrists stopped jerking; his fingers clenched in the covers as his will mastered his body and surrendered.

“You may now touch yourself properly,” John directed, “but you will not touch your cock. Anywhere and everywhere else, but you will come without a single stroke, caress or accidental whisper. Understand?”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied vaguely, one hand already moving back to his nipples.

The other fondled his balls, then evidently deciding that was too close, but not close enough, he switched to burying it in his hair and tugging in time with his pinches to the already abused chest.

The discovery that Sherlock enjoyed having his hair pulled had been a great relief because John had been fantasising about burying his fingers into the silky curls and tugging as he came into that decadent mouth or plush rear for weeks by the time they finally broke the tension and ‘did it’. As long as he didn’t pull any out, his vain peacock was more than content to let John pet, pull, and play to his heart’s content, which suited John, whose fascination for Sherlock’s curls was probably bordering on a fetish and could spend hours combing through them, just fine.

He should come on them, John thought, the idea breaking into his mind as he watched an inky lock slip from Sherlock’s fingers. Not this time, but during their next session he should come all over that hair and then spend the next hour with Sherlock in the bathroom, slowly washing it out. His tongue darted out over his lip at the mental image of Sherlock stretched out in the bath, covered in water, moaning as Sherlock worked the shampoo through his hair. Definitely next time.

The fingers were back in Sherlock’s mouth: tips, neat nails, callused pads, then the whole phalange sliding sinfully slowly past Sherlock’s red-bitten lips. The mirror gave John a very good view of exactly what that agile tongue was doing to draw those fingers deeper and ensure they were saturated with saliva.

It was a glorious show. John’s own constrained erection throbbed in interest, well aware of the exceptional treatment those fingers were receiving. Smoking had given Sherlock something of an oral fixation, which John indulged frequently, either because Sherlock had chosen to fill his mouth with John’s dick or because he’d driven John to distraction sucking on pens, chopsticks, the end of an errant teaspoon, and his Dom had decided that if Sherlock absolutely had to have something in his mouth so desperately, it might as well be his dick.

“Lube is on the bedside table.”

Sherlock hesitated just a second as both hands twitched, clearly trying to decide which set of fingers was going to leave his person to collect the lube. Groaning he flung his right hand out to scrabble around for the bottle, realising too late he was in the centre of the bed where he couldn’t reach it.

John loved it when he managed to shut down the infernal machinery that was Sherlock’s brain, having thrown him deep enough into Subspace that ordinary reasoning was beyond his logical lover.

Whimpering freely, Sherlock leant on his elbow and managed to just stretch his long fingers far enough to knock the bottle onto the bed to collect it. He fumbled with the cap, threatening to send the viscous liquid over the bed rather than liberally coating his fingers.

“Steady love.” John let the smirk trying to manifest in the face of Sherlock’s desperation free. “Draw your knees up. That’s it. Tilt your pelvis.”

Sherlock’s body fairly vibrated with the effort to follow John’s words, lube coated fingers trembling in mid-air as he rearranged on the bed.

“That’s good.” John praised him, soothing his Sub like a nervous, high strung thoroughbred, shaking and sweat soaked from exertion. “One finger first.”

He loved how responsive his detective was. If you managed to push past all the bravado and stubbornness and walls, Sherlock was as Submissive as Mycroft was Dominant, so quick and willing and eager to please. So gorgeous in his obedience. Whenever he let go, when he felt safe, Sherlock was sensitive enough to be sent down by nothing more than a series of ordinary instructions. Even Greg could have Dommed Sherlock if he’d let him.

And he was John’s. All John’s.

Possessive heat, too fierce to be described as love, burnt along John’s limbs and flared in his eyes as that first tentative finger breached Sherlock’s body. He knew Sherlock noticed, because his exquisite, alluring, fantastic lover let out a cut-off mewl that may have been a word or a whimper or a squeal before catching in Sherlock’s throat. The silver eyes, still locked on John’s, melted in the face of the raw depths pouring out of John’s soul.

“Say it.” John whispered.

He needed to hear it, needed it from Sherlock’s lips as he always did when these frantic scorching emotions rose, demanding satisfaction and reassurance.

“Captain.” Sherlock whispered back, his deep voice rumbling breathily through the word, too undone now to be described as a purr. “My Captain.”

“Yes.” John dropped his knees wider and shifted his gaze to that single finger penetrated his love, savage need smoothed, but not soothed. “Two.”

The single finger withdrew and returned with the longer index finger glistening with fresh lube. The two fingers pressed rhythmically against the flexing ring, left hand scraping up Sherlock’s inner thigh, leaving red scratches as Sherlock attempted to go slowly.

“Just like that,” John murmured, tongue involuntarily swiping over his lower lip.

The very tips of Sherlock’s fingers pressed inside and rotated around, pressing against the firm muscle and encouraging it to relax. Just the very tips, no more than a fingernail’s width, now moving steadily in and out of Sherlock’s body as he fucked himself on them, never moving any deeper than the second knuckle.

John made a concerted effort to take his teeth out of his lower lip. He didn’t remember sinking his teeth into it, but apparently he had. Deeper inside himself, Sherlock repeated the scissoring, his left hand positioned awkwardly to play with his balls without blocking John’s view. The moment he brushed against his prostate was marked by a tightening of his hand and a long exhale, closed eyes, and his head tilted back to expose that glorious neck.

“Again.”

Sherlock repeated the movement, his toes twitching on the bed.

“Again.”

His leg jerked, hips bucking at the movement.

“One more finger.”

Slowly Sherlock withdrew and added a third finger before easing back in with a shudder. John gave him a moment to adjust, watching for the slight release in Sherlock’s breathing that said he was ready.

“Bring yourself off.” He commanded.

Sherlock immediately began moving his fingers as deep as possible. With the three, the stretch would be just the lightest of burns, just as he liked it, and he wouldn’t have been able to avoid his prostate even if he’d tried. Sherlock’s cock was already primed, already well and truly aroused. It wouldn’t be long before John could sate his own needs, both primal and physical, and how he needed to, needed to sink into that moist warmth and pound away until Sherlock was indelibly marked as his.

Sherlock’s free hand couldn’t decide where to settle, as it shifted frantically between scratching his chest, playing with his nipples, and burying themselves deep in his hair. The closer he got, the less productive it was, fluttering uselessly on the bed, alternatively fisting the scarlet cloth and abandoning it to reach for his cock before his bran caught up and stopped him.

He was almost there, almost over the edge. The graceful coordinated thrusts had devolved to wild arrhythmic beats and pained cries as everything hovered just out of reach.

“Beautiful,” John whispered, utterly entranced by the sight of Sherlock’s Holmes driven to such a base state, writhing at the mercy of his transport. “You gorgeous, magnificent creature.”

Sherlock bucked his hips, attempting just a little more, a little deeper, and John ground his fingers into his leg, regulating his own response. One, two, three, then Sherlock was coming, painting his own abdomen with the thin ejaculate he produced as an Omega, his head thrown back and a melodious groan torn deep from his chest.

The movement continued, as Sherlock rode out his orgasm until the final toe curling twitch had finished and he could remove his fingers, letting them fall utterly spent.

John stood, hands unbuckling his belt, throwing it to the floor before he’d reached the bed. He didn’t bother to remove his pants or trousers, just pushed them down to his knees as he clambered up and grabbed Sherlock’s hips, pulling him down their bed towards John.

Sherlock’s rim fluttered around the head of his cock, and John paused only to arrange Sherlock’s long leg over his shoulder before pressing firmly in. John knew Sherlock was still sensitive from his orgasm, but in his blissed out post-orgasmic haze he offered no more than a thready sigh and an encouraging tilt of his hips to draw his Dom, his Captain, nearer.

“Mine,” John growled as he slammed home, pounding as fast and hard as he could.

It wouldn’t be long, not after that show. Sherlock was tight and warm around him, welcoming him as deep as he could go. John’s fingers were clenched hard enough to leave bruises in the thin skin above Sherlock’s hip, his shoulder ramming Sherlock’s long lean thigh with every thrust. The warm skin of Sherlock’s calf sliding against John’s back was punctuated by the beat of his heel as it thudded against John’s spine.

One more thrust and John was leaning on his forearms, balls deep as he came in a hot rush into his Sub, his vision blazing white with the strength of his orgasm.

It took a few moments of deeply breathing in the scent of sex spiralling out to fill the room before John managed to pull together enough brain power to let Sherlock’s leg down to the bed. The muscle was trembling with fatigue, and he dropped a light apology kiss to Sherlock’s collarbone before lying down fully by his Sub.

Sherlock was completely non-responsive, his brain offline. If necessary, John could have controlled Sherlock, given him Dominant orders his body would instinctively obey even while his mind rested, but he shied away from the thought of forcing Sherlock against his will.

Instead he lay sprawled on his Bonded’s chest, listening to the staccato like rhythm of Sherlock’s heart, with his softened cock still lodged in the Omega’s body. Without the knot, semen was already dripping out onto the bed cover, but John craved the closeness. Sherlock wouldn’t mind him resting here; he’d told John once his weight was calming, a presence that let Sherlock know on an unconscious level that John was there and it was safe to stay adrift.

With his trousers still around his knees and his button up undoubtedly uncomfortably pressing into Sherlock’s skin, breathless from yet another round of fantastic sex, John couldn’t help but wonder whether, hovering just out of reach, was an egg he’d never to able to fertilise, whether this semen creating a wet patch on the bed was as close as they’d ever come.

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to just breathe, and if his eyes did get a little moist, Sherlock wasn’t aware enough to see.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm fairly sure that by the time most of you read this it will probably be Monday. Sorry about that. Unfortunately computer issues and time zones conspired against this chapter, but at least it's a little present to brighten isn't really a good word with this story, to compliment your start to the week.
> 
> Just a heads up, Mycroft is a little volatile in this chapter, so if you think he's flip flopping between moods, you are completely correct.
> 
> Without further ado, betaed again by theartofprose (thank you!), Chapter 8.
> 
> Warnings: Dub-Con and minor gender identity issues

“And here we are, Benny-boy. Home sweet home.” Greg juggled his son, the bag and his keys, mostly successfully. “Now remember, we don’t believe anything Uncle Sherlock says about Daddy and I, yes? I am not that stupid and Daddy does not need to lose weight.”

“Thank you for that ringing endorsement, Gregory.” Mycroft was leaning casually on the bannister, smiling his tight amused smile.

“Hi, Mycroft. You’re home.” Greg smiled much more widely back. “Sherlock didn’t say anything, by the way. About your weight, I mean. Just trying to make sure, he doesn’t start, you know….Habits…”

Mycroft fondly shook his head at Greg’s sheepish explanation and stepped forward, holding out his arms for Ben. Greg didn’t really want to hand him over, but he’d cuddled Ben the whole way home and it was hardly fair to deny Mycroft the same now.

“Yeah, well, about that,” he started, as he settled Ben in Mycroft’s arms. “Any chance of you having a word with Sherlock and asking him _not_ to deduce our sex life in front of our son? Or teaching him to do it?”

Mycroft raised an eloquent eyebrow and Greg sighed. Sometimes he hated how much Mycroft could say with a raised brow.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll ask John.”

“Probably for the best,” Mycroft nodded. “So other than what I assume was a little observation incident, how was he?”

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation, prompting an amused snort of laughter from his erstwhile Sub.

“A little angel, I think,” Greg told Mycroft as he rolled his shoulders back, working out the kinks. “I hadn’t even got out of the flat before Sherlock started stripping, so the debrief was less than comprehensive, but clearly nothing that’s put them off having kids.”

Mycroft smiled again, his tight smirk loosening a little as he swayed gently while holding Ben. Greg wondered whether Mycroft realised he did that, how much softer he was around their son, but he wasn’t going to ask and risk bringing it to My’s attention. If he did, Mycroft would probably stop.

“Come on.” Greg hefted the baby bag higher onto his shoulder and started up the stairs. “He’s had a nap, so you can probably get some time playing with him before he needs feeding and bed.”

“Oh, and if I might enquire precisely what we are playing, Gregory?”

Despite his naturally arch tone and general lack of a playful bone in his body, Mycroft’s footsteps followed his up the stairs, and Greg felt a content grin spread over his lips.

“Well, I was going to put on the Wheels on the Bus and collapse on the sofa. Anything else is up to you, though Sherlock assures me Ben likes being tickled and what I think is peek-a-boo. Sherlock isn’t the most conventional baby entertainer in the world, so who knows what he was actually doing.”

Greg swore he could _hear_ Mycroft roll his eyes.

“Alternatively, we could foster his mental development with something a little more notable.”

“He’s been listening to Tchaikovsky all day, My, let him have some social development time now.”

Greg made sure to reach the player before Mycroft, laying claim to the music. He got to see Mycroft’s exasperated head shake that time.

“Go get a bottle ready,” Mycroft ordered in his own brand of disdainful amusement.

“Why don’t you just feed him? You’re here after all,” Greg pointed out, leaning casually on the dresser as he watched Mycroft engage with Ben.

It seemed a logical suggestion to him, but the shuttered mask fell across Mycroft’s face and was replaced just as quickly with trademark haughty derision. Greg had still seen it though, he knew what it meant.

“Is it because I’m here?” he asked, unsure why it was suddenly a problem after last time.

Mycroft didn’t reply, as he lay Ben on his play mat and favoured him with a smile that was noticeably absent from his face when he stood up.

“You’ve seen me feed Ben before,” Mycroft replied neutrally with just a touch of frost.

“Yeah, and I rather thought you enjoyed the result last night. I mean, wouldn’t it be easier? You’re an-” Greg asked bluntly.

“Do not get into the habit of thinking of me as an Omega,” Mycroft snapped over Greg’s reply. “That is _not_ who I am.”

“But. . . ” Greg’s eyes slid to Ben, who was lying wide eyed and unaware on the floor. “You _are_ an—”

“ _I’ll_ get his bottle then.” Mycroft pivoted and strode out of the door with the air of someone who wanted to slam it behind them.

With a sigh Greg sat on the floor next to Ben. “Okay, I get it. Omega - bad. Guess your Dad’s not the only one having identity issues. Sorry Tyke, we’re a real mess aren’t we? At least Mycroft can afford a good therapist when we totally stuff you up.”

Ben stuffed his fingers in his mouth and slobbered on them. Mycroft was right, he would need feeding soon.

The bottle arrived with Mycroft and his own personal ice cloud. Greg moved to the opposite side of the room without protest and dealt with the baby bag, keeping himself to himself as far away as possible from the silent demand for space.

He didn’t leave though. Images of Mycroft clutching at his hand while telling him to hurry up and go during labour strengthened his resolve to show Mycroft he was there and was part of it. So when he was done, rather than be chased out by the chilly silence broken only by Ben suckling on the artificial teat, Greg pulled a baby book off the shelf and settled on the couch to read, sneaking occasional glances at Mycroft and Ben.

It wasn’t viscerally arousing like it had been the night before, possibly because of the bottle, possibly because of the invisible wall Mycroft had erected around himself, but it was still comforting to see that none of that cold brusqueness translated into Mycroft’s handling of Ben. For Ben there were gentle touches, brief smiles and murmured words not audible where Greg sat.

Ben was obviously more worn out by his day at 221B than Greg had thought, because he fell asleep while Mycroft was still manoeuvring him into his sleep suit.

“Is Mrs Potts better? Do I need to drop him back tomorrow?” Greg asked quietly, not wanting to disturb Ben.

“I’ll take him over in the morning. Give her another day,” Mycroft replied without looking at Greg, tucking the blanket around Ben’s sleeping form.

“I’ll pick him up,” Greg volunteered. “Have a word with John.”

“Agreed.”

Mycroft straightened and turned away from the crib. Faced directly with Greg’s physical presence for the first time since he’d stormed out of the room, the walls softened a little, ice cloud giving just the slightest.

“So what’s for dinner?” Greg asked as they left the room. “I presume we’re foraging for ourselves like ye olden days.”

“Correct.”

“How hungry are you?”

“For food?” Mycroft’s voice had a light croon that dragged Greg’s attention very much back to his love.

“Yeah, food.” Greg’s tongue darted out and he licked his lips, thrown by the sudden change of attitude.

“Not very.” Mycroft’s eyes practically glowed green.

“For other things?” Greg tried to sound nonchalant, which wasn’t easy in the face of his Dom stalking towards him with intent and definite breathlessness.

“Starved,” Mycroft whispered into his mouth.

Abruptly the electric fission of arousal and lust snapped over Greg, sending goose bumps running over his body.

“Please, Master,” he whispered.

Please kiss me, please touch me, please let me believe you love me.

“ **Bedroom** ,” Mycroft ordered as he dragged his teeth lightly along Greg’s lower lip.

Greg shivered and responded with his own nip. The returned affection seemed to startle Mycroft a little and he pulled back. Greg arched his brow, somewhat seductively he hoped, and sauntered into the bedroom as ordered.

Mycroft must have hesitated else he would have been right on Greg’s heels. What that meant Greg didn’t know, but given that Mycroft looked a little blank and just a little closed off, it was probably related to his earlier outburst.

“As ordered,” he indicated, his grin only a little forced.

For some reason his heart was racing. Not the usual kind of racing either – it was more like the frantic beat of a bird’s wings, close to what he’d last felt when confronting Mycroft about their relationship’s secrecy clause.

“Indeed. Anything in particular?” Mycroft asked.

He sounded a little bit tetchy. Not a lot, but just enough for Greg to notice. Greg’s nerves weren’t helped as he noticed the slight clenching of Mycroft’s jaw. Somewhere, he’d gone wrong.

“Whatever you’d like…?”

Greg tried not to make it sound like a reluctant question, but the uncertainty would have been obvious to anyone, let alone Mycroft Holmes.

At the reassurance of control, Mycroft relaxed again, jaw loosening almost imperceptivity and demeanour changing from aggravated to aroused. Then Mycroft was prowling forward and that spark that had fizzed along his skin just started the slow burn in his abdomen.

Worried, Greg wondered. Had Mycroft been worried? Uncertain? Or was that wishful thinking as he slowly lost the ability to reason anywhere close to rationally?

“Hmmm…” Mycroft drew a hand across Greg’s cheek, nestling it among the short strands of his hair. His eyes sped over Greg’s body, evaluating. “What to do.”

“Haven’t tied me up in a while,” Greg offered breathily.

“True,” Mycroft pleasantly agreed, with a predator’s smile on his face. “But that’s a little more… time consuming than I’m in the mood for.”

“Is that so?” Greg asked lightly, trying to ignore the embarrassing catch at the beginning of his sentence. He chalked it up to the way his blood was streaming south.

“Oh yes,” Mycroft remarked conversationally. “I was thinking something a little sharper, a little more immediate.”

“There – there’s the, uh,” Greg tried, stumbling over the words as Mycroft unblinkingly stared into his soul.

“Yes, Gregory?” Amusement laced Mycroft’s words, resonating just behind the serious façade Greg was faced with.

Increasingly aroused and slipping gradually from his own mind, he was slowly losing the ability to read behind the lines.

“Back to basics, maybe?” Mycroft breathed in his ear.

“Yes, Master.” Greg closed his eyes, lightly swaying and oh so vaguely light headed.

“No more talking.” Mycroft stepped back. “ **Strip**.”

Greg’s hands flew automatically to his buttons, fingers operating on autopilot. He didn’t dally, didn’t try to make it sexy. Back to basics meant back to the rules and that meant prompt obedience: orders followed to the letter.

Mycroft’s lips gave an approving twitch and he moved to investigate the drawer while Greg struggled with his socks. His hand hovered over several items, moving around the options without ever actually landing while he considered exactly what he would go for. Just as Greg managed to fling his errant socks onto the pile, Mycroft reached a conclusion and pulled out the two sets of padded cuffs Greg had first worn in that bed.

Greg respectfully sank to his knees, head bowed.

“On the bed.” Mycroft placed a gentle hand on his hair, holding Greg still as he moved to obey. “Up kneeling, facing the bedstead. Hold the third rung.”

The restraining hand removed itself and Greg rose, climbing as elegantly onto the bed as he could and arranging his limbs as requested. Hands on the bedhead, Greg started letting things go, relaxing into it as Mycroft clasped the inch wide leather cuffs around his wrists.

Mycroft only used one set this time, looping it through the iron work to maintain the pressure on Greg’s arms. Without his bracelets, the leather didn’t encase his wrists and forearms the same way, but it was enough to centre him, stop the focus on the what and the why.

Mycroft began removing his own clothes. Not having been told not to look, Greg turned his head to watch, drinking in the sight of skin as each layer was removed and carefully stored on the chair. Once he was finished, clad only in his pants, Mycroft picked up the first of the accessories set out on the bedside table.

Seeing what he held, Greg shifted his weight attempting to make his chest as accessible as possible.

“Good.” Mycroft kissed him lightly as he attached the clamps and deceptively delicate looking chain.

The effect of the clamps was instantaneous as the cleansing bite washed away the rest of the world. The chain was the long game: it was so light now, but as his body tired it would feel heavier and heavier and drag him further down. Mycroft climbed up behind him on the bed, yanking his hips backwards until Greg was stretched out struggling to keep his hold on the bedstead. The sudden motion sent the chain swinging and a fresh pinch shuddering along his nerves.

It had been so long since he felt this, the delicate slide into oblivion that was subspace. His perception shrank, drilling down to Mycroft’s hands running along his back, the firm muscles of their thighs touching, and the light, insistent pinpricks on his nipples.

He hadn’t managed this last time, when he’d been too bound up in his own head from what they were doing and before that... before that it had been months since Mycroft had sent him under. The slide eased the tightness—not the one in his chest he never seemed rid of—the one down his spine and behind his forehead he’d only become aware of the first time Mycroft had taken it away. It had been building imperceptibly while Mycroft was away, lost under the myriad of other sensory demands and every day stresses.

Now it uncoiled, released, letting Greg fit comfortably back into his own skin as he arched against Mycroft and soundlessly purred.

“Beautiful.” Mycroft kissed his spine, a wet humid point springing into existence in Greg’s narrowing world and lingering beyond the touch of Mycroft’s tongue and lips.

“Gorgeous.” Manicured fingernails drew gently down his side, rocking the chain as Mycroft changed to rougher streaks, nails leaving stinging lines of skin along Greg’s sides.

Mycroft drew back, mouth hovering millimetres off Greg’s skin as he pulled away, dropping one more spot of water borne heat at the base of Greg’s buttocks.

“How are you feeling?”

Greg hummed contentedly, Mycroft’s voice flowing over him raising tingles as it went, before he realised sluggishly that it was a question he was probably meant to answer.

“Good, Master,” he slurred, his mouth and tongue not co-operating.

Mycroft chucked and dropped another kiss on his back.

“I meant after yesterday,” he rumbled, giving Greg’s arse a squeeze for emphasis.

“All right,” Greg mumbled, struggling not to lose focus as the insinuation hit him in the centre of his chest.

It was like being caught in a maelstrom, a hurricane that ripped him suddenly and harshly from subspace, throwing him brutally to the surface at the memory. His head spun, disoriented, and he felt like he was going to be sick right there on the bed.

Breathe, he had to breathe, get control before he made an absolute fool of himself.

Shocked back to awareness, the world flooded in: the room, his knees getting stiff on the bed, the ache in his shoulders, the pain on his chest – no longer arousing or helpful, just pain that his body wanted to get away from. Mycroft was standing by the bed, pouring lube onto his fingers and completely unaware of the shift his words had caused in a matter of milliseconds.

Under, he had to get back under before Mycroft noticed, before they did anything. He’d barely been able to cope last time, floundering in the shallows as he’d been. There was no way he could do it raw, exposed and aware.

Mycroft’s fingers touched him and he was glad, so, so glad, that he was on his knees facing away from him because it meant his face was hidden from view. There was less of a chance of Mycroft noticing his turmoil, his inability to _stay down,_ if he couldn’t see his face. His body was still pliant and relaxed, only his mind and that hard knot lodged in his chest wouldn’t comply.

Mycroft’s fingers were gentle and wet, pushing and probing as lightly as possible to start, his entire attention focused on preparing Greg as carefully as he could. It gave Greg time to try and hide his mental struggle.

Did he want to hide it? Shouldn’t he let Mycroft see and they could – no. Not after Mycroft’s outburst at being more than an Omega. The Alpha in him shied away from showing failure, weakness.

It also tried to shy away from Mycroft’s fingers.

Misinterpreting, Mycroft eased out and reapplied the lube, thinking it was physical pain Greg was flinching away from and being oh so careful to try and alleviate it. The cold slick fingers pressed back, gently circled him attempting to make sure the viscous gel was well and truly spread before slowly beginning to apply pressure.

Static wails spiralled to squawky electronic heights as Ben awoke and found something to his displeasure.

“Shit,” Greg heard Mycroft swear.

The long fingers withdrew and a cloth started softly but briskly wiping away the dribbling lube he’d just liberally applied to Greg’s arse.

“Gregory? Gregory, I’m going to have to go and deal with Ben, okay? I need you to start coming up now.” Mycroft called him firmly, keeping contact as he attempted to ease him up gently, not knowing Greg had already roughly surfaced.

“I’m going to take this off and let your hands go, understand? I don’t know how long I’ll be and I can’t leave you like this, I’m sorry.” Mycroft kept talking in his low voice, unclamping the nipple clamps and rubbing a perfunctory layer of cream on them as Greg hissed and Ben cried ever more loudly, distracting Mycroft away from the fact Greg that didn’t need the care, rushed as it was.

Last off were the handcuffs, dropped carelessly on the bedside table instead of carefully stowed as was Mycroft’s usual practice. His normal routine of cleaning and packing away exchanged for throwing on a dressing gown and laying Greg down on the bed, promising to be back as soon as possible before running out.

Greg didn’t protest. Anything to avoid drawing attention to how his heart was hammering with relief not desperation and trembling from gratitude not shock.

Free to move about he shuffled as quickly as his limbs would allow him into the bathroom for a more thorough clean up than the one Mycroft had had time for. There wasn’t much left to do, Mycroft was nothing if not efficient, but he went over it all anyway and downed a glass of water, slopping some of it on his chest as he gulped.

He towelled off roughly, drying the sweat that had broken out over his skin at the same time. Maybe he was a little shocky after all.

His pyjamas were under ‘his’ pillow, now that he was an unofficial permanent fixture in Mycroft’s bed whether they were or weren’t having sex. He usually didn’t bother, just slipping on a t-shirt and boxers to sleep in, but tonight he wanted the coverage.

He snorted at himself as he got into bed. What? Was he worried My was going to be overcome by the sight of his shins and plunge straight in? If that were the result he’d have been sleeping in boxers since day one to encourage it.

He wore the long bottoms anyway, and when the sounds of Mycroft laying a much happier Ben back down filtered through the baby monitor he turned his back on the door and curled up, pretending to be asleep.

The door shut with a quiet click and Mycroft approached the bed in a rustle of silk.

“Gregory?”

Greg stayed where he was, keeping his breathing even. The sounds of Mycroft pulling on his own nightwear reached his ears, followed by the waft of cool air as Mycroft slid under the sheet, despite the early hour.

A gentle kiss was dropped on his temple and a delicate exhale wafted Mycroft’s semi-fresh breath over Greg’s face as he held there, nose buried in Greg’s hair. He pressed another gentle kiss on the back of Greg’s neck and nestled behind him.

Greg tried not to curl into a cringing ball and lay there consumed with inexplicable guilt, wide awake long after Mycroft had fallen asleep, still wrapped around Greg in an unnecessary attempt to be considerate and prevent him waking up in a drop.

He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t explain any of it, but when his alarm went off the only surprise was that after lying awake and waiting for it for so long, it hadn’t sounded sooner.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening everyone. Sorry about last week, but due to personal circumstances I wasn't able to update. Don't worry, you won't be shorted. This week there will be two chapters instead. 
> 
> As always, feel free to point out typos etc. that I have inevitably missed and I'll go back and edit them. Thanks to theartofprose for reading over this. Mistakes still in are definitely still mine. 
> 
> I know there was other things that I was meant to say, but I have forgotten them. 
> 
> Warnings: Sex, if I still need to warn for that. Fully consensual for once, if anyone's wondering.

John was fresh out of the shower and making tea when the doorbell rang. Given the unsociable hour of the morning, he was willing to lay bets on who was on the other side of the door and why, so he sighed and clicked the kettle off, going down to answer it.

It was Mycroft, not Greg, so he’d got that wrong, but his bundled up nephew, awake and grumpy-looking in Mycroft’s arms, meant he’d at least got the why his door was being knocked on so early portion correct. If Mycroft looked disapproving at the sight of John in his dressing gown, towel still slung over his shoulders, well, frankly John saw that as his brother-in-law’s problem, not his.

“Good morning, John.” Mycroft dropped the baby bag over John’s arm before he’d managed to pull it back from opening the door. “Gregory will be back to collect him around five thirty.”

John hiked the baby bag up onto his shoulder, but crossed his arms making it impossible for Mycroft to follow through with his attempt to shove Ben into John’s arms before diving for the car.

“I have work today,” John remarked mildly. “I start in an hour, as you’re aware, and won’t be home until five thirty myself—if I’m lucky.”

Mycroft looked bewildered at the fact that John wasn’t holding the baby yet.

“Mrs Potts is ill.” He tried to hold Ben out to John again, the motion aborting as John made no move to accept his five week old nephew.

“So I gathered from the fact you’re here at seven thirty in the morning.” John commented non-committedly. “I have work.”

John would end up taking Ben and working out something with Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on Sherlock keeping an eye on Ben; that he knew. It was why he was still holding the baby bag. On the other hand, he was also aware, however, of the need to press home the fact that they were _not_ always going to be available for babysitting and that at the very least they should be given notice and asked. From the fact that it hadn’t even occurred to Mycroft and Greg that maybe they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take Ben, John knew his concerns over becoming the official unofficial nanny were well founded. As sweet as his nephew was, this needed to be nipped in the bud now as it would only get worse once Mrs Pott’s temporary London stay ended.

“Well, I can’t take him to work with me.” Mycroft sounded agitated.

His vowels and consonants were particularly crisp, and he looked just a little bit nervous.

As adorable as the thought of Ben in a playpen tucked into the corner of Mycroft’s office and throwing his toys at important diplomats was, it was also a slightly scary concept and a security nightmare.

“Well, in the future you might want to arrange for a sitter then.” John smiled, arms still firmly crossed, leaning on the door frame.

At this point he really was just tormenting Mycroft because he could, a fact John rather thought Mycroft knew and was becoming increasingly frustrated by. It addictive sweet, because even though Mycroft knew what John was doing, he was unable to push his point without possibly driving John to an outright no. It was an uncommon occurrence that John got the upper hand like this, and he was determined to enjoy it.

“Doctor Watson, I really must-”

The sound of someone up and moving around filtered down from upstairs, creaking floor boards and the wheezing groan of ancient copper pipes – Sherlock finally awake.

“John?” Sherlock called out, from the corridor into the kitchen John guessed.

John reached for Ben, ignoring the triumphant smirk breaking out on Mycroft’s face. Sherlock was not body shy. He’d frequently walked around the flat in nothing more than a sheet before they were lovers, and he would have no problems coming down to see why John was at the door without anything on. Sherlock tended towards horny in the mornings and while he wouldn’t care about giving his brother a full frontal view of his morning erection, John would be more than a little embarrassed. If cutting short his pissing contest with Mycroft was the price for Sherlock not bounding down the stairs buck naked then cut it short John would.

“John where are you? You should have stayed in bed; I wanted to-”

“Sherlock, your nephew’s here,” John interrupted, calling up the stairs as quietly as possible to try not to disturb Mrs Hudson and hoping it might stop Sherlock coming down.

The flurry of footsteps thundering down the stairs made John wince for Mrs Hudson, but he had at least donned, and even sloppily tied, a dressing gown.

“Morning Abernathy. You’re with us today?” Sherlock headed straight for Ben and lifted the baby out of John’s arms. “Mycroft. You’re showered. Why have you showered? Oh, dull, work. Call the surgery and stay with Abernathy and I.”

“I’m not calling in,” John repeated the almost daily rebuke. “I’m already their least reliable doctor!”

“Then quit! I’ve told you, you don’t need it. We’ve got more than enough money.” Sherlock’s attention was almost entirely on his nephew, carrying on their familiar argument by rote.

“ _You’ve_ got plenty of money, and that’s not the only reason I work.” John sighed, knowing the grunt in acknowledgement merely meant Sherlock was distracted by more interesting things, not that the topic might finally be put to rest.

“Fine. Ben and I will begin his education then. It will be much easier without all the idiocy in the room.” Sherlock headed up the stairs without another word.

“Edu – Sherlock, what are you—?! Bye Mycroft! Sherlock!” John practically shut the door on Mycroft’s nose, before hurrying up the stairs after his erratic Sub.

“Nothing you’d disapprove of,” Sherlock paused in the doorway to 221B and abruptly shoved Ben into John’s arms, before heading swiftly down the corridor towards the bathroom.

“Sherlock?” John frowned, peering down the corridor at the stark, closed, white door. . “Sherlock, you okay?”

“Fine,” the deep baritone snapped back.

John shrugged at Ben. “He’s as irritable as usual, that’s for sure. Okay, that’s two of us I’d better get ready for the day I suppose.”

Ben blinked at him, grumpy sleepy face clearly indicating his preference for sleep over getting ready to do anything remotely active.

Mycroft hadn’t brought the baby carrier, so with nothing to lie Ben in, John improvised with some blankets on the lounge floor. If they were going to keep babysitting, John was going to make Mycroft spring for a playpen and a basket. 221B was in no way baby friendly.

Apparently deeming his nest satisfactory—or too tired to care—Ben settled in straight away, leaving John to mourn his lack of morning tea. because kettles and sleeping babies didn’t mix.

He’d managed breakfast by the time Sherlock emerged from the bathroom.

“You okay?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, slumping into his chair at the table.

“It’s just if you’ve got any kind of gastro thing, Mrs Hudson should probably mind Ben. We don’t need him getting it. There’s probably the death penalty for that.” John frowned at him, resting his knife on the side of his plate as he watched for any hint of illness in Sherlock’s face.

“Don’t be daft,” Sherlock dismissed him with a flick of his fingers. “I feel fine. I did do right up until that, and I do now.”

John pressed his wrist against Sherlock’s forehead, ignoring the disgusted noise of protest at his methods.

“Well, you don’t have a fever at all. If you start feeling ill, let Mrs Hudson take Ben, okay?”

“Yes, _Doctor_.” Sherlock pulled away from John’s wrist and picked birdlike at the slice of toast John passed over. Seeing John’s concerned look, he rolled his eyes. “I’m still full from yesterday, not sick.”

Sherlock had certainly eaten a lot the day before. Mmore than John really, so he didn’t say anything, just dropped a kiss to the inky curls and went to dress for work.

“We’ll need to do some proper baby proofing at some point,” John said once he’d changed, as he shrugged on his jacket.

Sherlock grunted in that ‘Sure, but I’m not going to help’ way he had, still occupied with shredding his toast more than eating it.

“I’ll see you later.” John shook his head with the usual fond exasperation he usually left in.

He really was lucky he found Sherlock’s sulky petulance adorable, or else their lives would be hellish.

As he turned to leave, he was interrupted by the scrape of Sherlock’s chair in the kitchen, causing John to wait as Sherlock sulkily meandered over and folded himself gracefully onto his knees, with his face upturned. Smiling, John leant to press a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

“Love you too,” he whispered. “I’ll see you after work.”

The clinic was the same as ever, red noses and repetitive diagnoses of colds with parents refusing to accept that there was nothing he could give them. One mother annoyed him so much he scrawled out a prescription for chicken soup, after which she stormed out in a huff, child in tow.

After his shift John made sure to leave as soon as he could, not willing to do extra paperwork when he didn’t know how much mischief Sherlock had managed at home. It would be just his luck that after a day of flu at the surgery he’d go home to find both his lover and his nephew sick with it at home.

Sherlock was stretched out on the couch when John got home, with Ben napping on his chest. If not for the hand lazily fanning the two of them with a bill, John would have thought Sherlock was napping too.

The fierce loving need he kept buried as deep as possible made one of its increasingly frequent breaks for freedom, bubbling to the surface in almost painful up swells of emotion at the sight of Sherlock, three buttons undone, with Ben trucked up under his chin, arm holding him in place. Their baby, John inwardly vowed, unable to move in the face of _so much_. One day he would come home to this same scene only it would be their baby Sherlock would be tenderly cradling, not their nephew.

God he _wanted_ that.

“Evening,” John choked out; not bothering to hide how much the sight was affecting him. One flick of a mercurial eye and Sherlock would know anyway.

The eyes stayed closed, but a tight smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock’s lips and his right hand did a funny wave, seeming to invite John closer. John took the invitation, seating himself on the coffee table and momentarily stilling Sherlock’s hand so he could drop a kiss to his wrist.

Up close Sherlock’s skin listened with a fine layer of sweat, and John sighed in his head. Evidently whatever Sherlock had caught wasn’t so easily passed through his system and of course he hadn’t let Mrs Hudson mind Ben.

“How is he?” John asked, running a gentle finger along Ben’s clothed back.

“Good.” Sherlock rumbled, almost inaudibly. “Still excessively fond of naps.”

“That’ll be true for a while yet, I’m afraid.” John smiled.

He pushed to standing and dropped a kiss to Sherlock’s curls, noting the slight humidity to his hair that suggested he’d had a low grade fever.

“I’ll get his stuff packed. Greg’ll be here soon.” John pushed away from the couch, ignoring Sherlock’s non-committal hum.

“No new cases today then?” He called from the kitchen trying to keep his voice quiet enough not to disturb Ben.

“Couple of fives.” Sherlock replied, flapping his make shift fan dismissively. “Nothing worth troubling about at the minute.”

“Nothing more from that serial killer then?” John located one of the missing baby socks under the sink. He didn’t really want to know how it got there.

“Apparently not.” Sherlock sounded annoyed, as though the failure to murder another person on some kind of useful schedule was a personal inconvenience. “It’s been ages since the last body.”

“A couple of months.” John scolded. “That’s not ages.”

“Not even officially a serial killer yet.” Sherlock groused from the couch.

“Just think,” John dropped the baby bag by the door, “it gives you more free time with Ben.”

“True.” Sherlock chucked. “Did you know he blinks at approximately-”

“Thought I said no experiments?” Greg cheerfully interrupted from the door.

Sherlock scowled. “It wasn’t an experiment. It was data collection.”

“Yeah, but I know you.” Greg shouldered the bag and waggled a finger in Sherlock’s direction. “Today data, tomorrow drawing blood for tests.”

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully and rose with almost his usual grace. It was a little off, John noticed, but that could have just been the addition of a napping baby, who did, miraculously, stay asleep.

“Oh you’ll be up half the night now, won’t you?” Greg crooned, accepting the bundle.

Ben yawned and snuffled a little before deciding sleep was still the better option.

“I’ll get the door for you.” John volunteered, avoiding the squeaky steps as much as he was able on the way down.

“Thanks.” Greg followed slowly after. “We shouldn’t need to impose tomorrow. It was just a twenty-four hour flu or something, but thanks for helping out.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just remember: notice works wonders.” John opened the door as Greg finally made it to the bottom.

“Sorry, yeah, course.” Greg shook his head. “Guess we can’t complain you’re not here if you’re not.”

“Nope, and I take enough time of work for my own five year old, thanks.” John shared a grin with Greg over the top of Ben’s head.

“About that,” Greg hitched the baby bag a bit higher on his shoulder. “Any chance…”

John tried not to look too amused as Greg flushed an obvious rouge.

“Date night coming up?” He teased mercilessly.

“No, the opposite, ish.” Greg winced. “Any, um, chance you can ask Sherlock not to, you know, deduce… stuff… in front of Ben? Or teach him to, you know, tell?”

John must have looked as confused about Greg thinking Mycroft wouldn’t be teaching Ben deductions as he felt because Greg went a deeper shade of red and mumbled “You know, sex stuff” as clarification.

“Oh.” John shut his mouth with a click.

It was a little cruel, but it was too hard not to smirk at the desperation flowing across Greg’s face.

“Please, John. I’m going to have a hard enough time regulating age appropriate deducing; you have to help me with this. My won’t ask because he thinks Sherlock will just teach Ben to do it out of spite, and-”

“I’ll talk to him, relax.” John chucked. “It’s not like _I_ want to know either after all.”

“Thank you.” Greg heaved a huge sigh of relief. “I owe you.”

“You already owe me two days of babysitting, to say the least.” He waved Greg out the door. “Go on, take him home before he wakes up.”

“All night.” Greg groaned. “He’ll be up all night. I haven’t had a decent sleep in ages.”

It would have been a more complaint if everything about Greg hadn’t been positively radiating joy and contentment.

Squashing the bitter envy trying to rear its head and not really succeeding, John trooped back up the stairs, footsteps heavy, but at least not uneven. It was hard, having Ben around, but not excruciatingly painful like the idea of him had once been. Not now they were on the same page, he and Sherlock.

Sherlock, who was pacing the living room with an agitated frenzy, running his hands through his hair and randomly breaking off to drag fingers down his arms or squeeze his biceps tight. He looked, John thought, like a junkie desperate for the next fix, twitching uncontrollably as he whirled around the room unable to stay still.

“I’m clean.” Sherlock snapped at him.

“I know.” John replied without even thinking about it.

He did know, had seen Sherlock’s recent run of blood tests, and even if he hadn’t he wouldn’t have thought Sherlock was using. He trusted him.

“How do you feel?” He asked, finally settling on it as the question least likely to get them into a screaming match.

“I don’t-” Sherlock pivoted and headed to the fireplace, gripping it tight, left foot jittery.

“I don’t know.” He admitted. “I just can’t… I can’t concentrate on…”

“You seemed calmer a few minutes ago.” John watched his Sub in the mirror, the mounting frustration as Sherlock couldn’t work out what his body wanted writ large across his face. “Has it been like this all day?”

“Yes,” Sherlock growled waspishly. “No. Most of it. Ben, Ben helped. When I was holding him, it helped.”

“Can I help?” John asked patiently. It has been some time since he’d seen Sherlock’s mind spin out of control to the point he almost couldn’t think like this, but it had happened before during droughts of cases or quitting cigarettes, again. “Do you need me to put you under?”

“I need, I need, I need… you.” Sherlock’s head snapped up, gaze locking onto John in the mirror. “You.”

He pushed off the mantle and had crossed the room in two bounding steps, shoving John against the narrow strip of wall between the doorways.

“You.” Sherlock growled harshly into John’s mouth. “I need you, that’s what I need. Your cock.”

John passively let Sherlock plunder his mouth, taking the opportunity to secretly test his temperature. He was warm, but not feverishly so, and his skin wasn’t so damp John thought he’d had a fever break during the day despite the sheen of sweat.

“If you’re quite satisfied.” Sherlock sniped, biting John’s lip painfully in aggression.

John yelped, pushing Sherlock off him and forcing him to his knees. Sherlock followed John’s unspoken demands, legs collapsing under him in what seemed like relief after only the slightest hint of pressure. Down there, John jerked his misbehaving love’s chin up, struggling to hold his own growl to a low grumble.

“That,” he glared angrily at Sherlock , “hurt.”

Sherlock had the grace to look slightly guilty, but as he did so often he covered it quickly with a sulky glare. His eyes were glazed and he was working the petulant pout like only he could, determined to get what he wanted – in this case John.

John wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t thrown Sherlock over the couch already and fucked him. Mostly concern for his health, rapidly dwindling under Sherlock’s pleading gaze.

The Omega’s tongue peeked out, swiping purposefully over his full lower lip. Stuff it, John decided in a rush, he was going over the couch.

“Behave or it won’t be a punishment you’ll enjoy,” he warned.

Sherlock’s dark bushy brow rose in a challenging arc – make me.

”I mean it.” John squeezed Sherlock’s chin, still cradled in his left hand. “I can take you down without sex.”

“I don’t need – Fine! Anything, just hurry up and fuck me.”

John hauled him upright, Sherlock stumbling slightly as John roughly shoved him, not providing any of the subtle help he usually gave. . Long legs off balance, it was all too easy to have Sherlock over to the couch and spun around before he’d managed to regain his poise.

Kissing Sherlock Holmes never got stale. Sometimes it was over powering, sometimes demanding, sometimes totally submissive. Every now and then it was placid or even totally vacant, Sherlock having wondered off into his mind palace leaving his body running on autopilot. Never the same, always an experience.

Today he was caught off guard so it started relaxed, but quickly morphed into frenzied snogging, Sherlock trying every filthy trick he could manage to move them along faster.

It was certainly working. John had been fighting low level arousal since Sherlock had jumped him, and it never really took much to get him in the mood for Sherlock. He was thickening out at a rapid rate and his love’s dedicated attention was only making his trousers tighter.

Impatient to move on, Sherlock’s hands tugged John’s belt out of its loops and pushed his trousers off his hips. John let him, it had been getting a little cramped, and what Sherlock needed seemed less about going under and more that he was just desperate for sex, so he could let his Sub set the pace a bit. He did stop the presumptuous hand that wrapped about him.

“Fine.” Sherlock broke out of the kiss and pulled away, shimmying out of his trousers with the speed of the well-practiced before practically throwing himself over the arm of the couch.

Unable to resist, John smacked the pale globes of flesh, just once, in warning. He let Sherlock get away with a lot, but he was still in charge.

The motion ground Sherlock’s erection against the couch and he whined in approval, moving slightly so his arse was even higher in the air. Obligingly, and because he loved to watch the way Sherlock’s bottom wobbled under his blows, John delivered another smack to the other arse cheek.

“What’s got into you all of a sudden?” He asked, leaning over the warm ivory skin to root around in the sofa cushions for lube.

He’d started stashing lube everywhere when he and Sherlock had first started out, still obsessed with the idea of christening every room in the house. They’d done that now, but since Mrs Hudson had already learnt not to walk in without knocking and Sherlock kept looking all too appealing at random times at random rooms, John kept replacing the lube. It made Mrs Hudson a little flustered whenever she found a stash while cleaning, but other than some embarrassed fluttering and a secretly pleased smile, she made no protest.

The tube was getting low, he noted, but there was enough to thoroughly coat his fingers. At the first press Sherlock gave a rumbly purr and arched up like a cat, pressing John further in than he’d intended to start and loving it.

“Easy,” John dropped kisses and light nips down the wiry muscles. “Get sore now and I won’t be able to fuck you properly later.”

“You’d better!” Sherlock hissed, breaking with a little cry as John deliberately twisted his fingers in the exact way he knew Sherlock loved.

John chuckled into Sherlock’s shoulder blade, repeating the action at Sherlock’s angry growl.

“Hurry up!” Sherlock groused, working himself back on John’s fingers as John tried to pull them back. “Get in me already.”

John didn’t reply, continuing the slow stretch. Aggravated by the pace, Sherlock’s responses were becoming increasingly demanding, his annoyance plain in every grunt.

“For God’s sake, John, I’m not glass.” Sherlock snapped as John carefully worked a third finger. “Just fucking fuck me! Now!”

Patience over the limit, John immediately withdrew his hand, moving far enough back Sherlock would notice the space between them.

“ **Manners**.” He barked. “Or would you prefer a time out?”

“No, no, please.” The bravado gone, Sherlock sounded panicked.

“You are out of line and you know it.” John frowned, not touching his squirming Sub.

“Please,” Sherlock pleaded as he wiggled desperately, unable to stay still. “Please! I need you in me.”

“I’m not sure you can behave. I should leave you until you remember who’s in charge here.”

“You are, Captain, please!” Sherlock begged. “Please, I really - _please_.”

Sherlock really did sound frantic, pleading the way he was with tears already shot through his voice. John had never seen him like this, ever. He’d seen Sherlock out of control and out of his head, he’d seen him tired, grumpy and all combinations angry and annoyed, but this… this was different. This wasn’t a Sub needing a break from the world; it was something else.

“Please.”

The sob was enough to kick John into action. Whatever was wrong, he’d give Sherlock what he thought he needed and reprimand him later.

“Behave,” he whispered into the dark hair, “or I will make you wait.”

“Captain, yes, please.”

John positioned himself over Sherlock, slathered on a touch more lube, and dove straight in.

“Yes!” Sherlock arched up, eyes closed in bliss.

John thrust again, withdrawing just enough to circle his hips as he plunged back in.

“Harder, p-please.” Sherlock stuttered.

If Sherlock wanted to be pounded, John could certainly do that. Grabbing his hips for leverage, John slammed back in, followed immediately by another thrust just as strong.

“Yes, yes!” Sherlock chanted breathlessly. “Just a little more, please, just a little more.”

John kept going, establishing a brutal pace that they’d both feel when this was over.

“Deeper, please.” Sherlock begged pushing back to meet John’s cock. “A little deeper… Need.”

“Can’t get any deeper, ‘lock.” John panted, unable to talk and keep up the ferocious thrusts.

“Please!” Sherlock begged, clawing at the couch.

“Touch yourself.” John ordered, voice almost lost in his gasp for air.

Whimpering Sherlock obeyed, coming almost instantly against the dark leather. John began to slow, expecting that to be the end of it, but Sherlock gave a plaintive cry and tried to speed them back up.

John was vaguely aware that Sherlock should be super sensitive, but he was getting too close to his own end to dedicate much thought to it. Instead of the rhythmic slide into the moist tight grip of Sherlock’s passage and the beautiful pleading sobs for more, more, more, more were doing a very thorough job of driving John beyond rational control, everything condensing down to the snap of his hips, the velvet drag and the warmth building in his groin.

It wouldn’t be long, couldn’t be long. He was beginning to feel the almost fierce drive that surfaced when he denied himself too long, just hovering on the edge without falling over. Almost there, almost there.

Sherlock thrust back against him, whimpering gorgeously with his eyes closed and neck arched. The visual was enough – one, two and John buried himself deep, riding the flash of white noise while his nerves sang.

“No, no” Sherlock mumbled, still attempting to rock his hips and keep them going.

All his attempts did was pull John’s rapidly softening cock out, leaving him whimpering and grinding himself against his Dom’s groin.

“Please, John. So empty, please.”

Wincing slightly, John shifted back and pulled Sherlock down with him so they were seated leaning against the clean portion of the couch. Sherlock immediately clambered onto his lap, kissing and fondling him as though he could bring John back up by sheer dint of will.

“Stop that.” John flinched and caught Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock may not have been feeling over sensitive in the wake of their orgasms, but he was.

“Need it. Please, John, I need more.” Sherlock begged, attempting to shake off John’s hand so he could continue.

“What’s up with you?” John stared at him, pinning Sherlock where he was as his Sub attempted to slide off John’s lap to use his mouth instead. “I don’t know why you’re so horny, love, but you’ll have to wait. It’s not Heat, I can’t just…”

John trailed off, eyes licking over the writing body held tight against his own as ideas formed and worked their way out into the open.

He’d been slow, he realised, putting the pieces together. They’d all been right there in front of his face, he just hadn’t paid attention. He had seen Sherlock like this, but the only time he’d seen Sherlock this desperate for sex without any real submissive drive was during Estrus, and it wasn’t a sign he usually relied on to clue him in. The pheromones usually took care of that.

All the other early biological flags were there too: gorging himself the day before, then picking at food that day; the morning bathroom rush as his body cleared out in preparation for days of rutting; the way his condition had deteriorated rapidly once they’d started sex, even the need to keep Ben close to function, the presence of a new born redirecting the hormones into a caring rather than sexual role.

Sherlock whined, pressing his forehead into John’s neck.

“Sherlock, ‘lock, listen, no, I need you to listen to me.” John freed up one hand, attempting to pull Sherlock back enough to see his face, despite his Omega’s determination to stay nestled in the crock of his Alpha’s neck. “’Lock, you’re having some kind of pseudo-Heat.”

There was no verbal response, just Sherlock panting into his shoulder.

“Sherlock? I think we’ve discovered a side effect of the injection they gave you at the appointment.” John stroked Sherlock’s sweaty curls, trying to help calm him. “Love-”

“Yes, John, I understood the first time.” Sherlock snapped at him, his harsh words undercut by the whimpering whine that hadn’t gone away since the wave of need had kicked in. “I just… I need…”

“I know, love, but you’re not putting out any pheromones. All hormones. Sherlock, I won’t be able to…”

John trailed off, holding is Sub close as he convulsed and gave a choked off sob.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, kissing Sherlock’s curls.

He then pushed him off his lap as gently as possible, clambering stiffly to his feet. Offering Sherlock a hand, he drew him up to trembling feet. Unusually Sherlock was more reminiscent of a young colt on unsteady legs than a graceful predatory cat.

“Come on, love. Bedroom.” He whispered, guiding Sherlock with a hand in the small of his back. “I’m going to take care of you, I promise.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of the evening! 
> 
>  
> 
> No particular warnings for this one.

Greg leant back in his chair, feet up on the desk, pastry in one hand, mug in the other, phone held between his ear and shoulder as he waited for it to ring through to message bank. He wasn’t expecting anyone to answer, but after the slightly off state Sherlock had been in when Greg had picked Ben up from 221B Wednesday and John’s cryptic ‘Not available until I text’ text, he felt obligated to at least check up on them.

If he was honest, John and Sherlock had been weighing on his mind more and more lately. God knows they both had issues, but they were the closest thing to a model relationship he had. In and of itself that was sad, but even worse was that in most respects it appeared Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed sociopath, was more capable of a functional relationship than he was.

He’d been thinking about it, obsessing really, a lot lately why did Sherlock and John work when he and Mycroft… didn’t.

It should have been better than before. Mycroft was being much more affectionate, even going so far as to curl around Greg at night while they slept. He may not have said anything, but he was clearly showing that yes, he did in fact want Greg there. It should have been liberating, except the one place they’d always seemed to gel perfectly… they didn’t.

They were back to been having regular sessions at night, but not once since Mycroft came back had he managed to get Greg properly under. It always started well, Greg actually getting quite deep to begin, but then inevitably the matter came around to getting off and every time the sensation of Mycroft’s fingers breaching him would throw him white knuckled to the surface, forced to fake his way through the rest of it.

And it wasn’t that he wasn’t ‘getting there’. He always got off; his body quite enjoyed it even. It was the humiliation: that he, an Alpha, was taking it like that (and _worse_ enjoying it) that made him tense and squirm. It just wasn’t right. Oh, John could espouse its virtues and see nothing wrong with it, but what John Watson didn’t have in trust issues wasn’t worth knowing about, especially trust in himself. He probably preferred being the one tied up – hard to lose control when you’d given most of it away.

So far he’d been able to fake it, keep Mycroft distracted so the normally observant genius hadn’t picked up the clues yet (probably because Ben was demanding attention over the monitor) but that wouldn’t last forever.

Greg wasn’t actually sure why he was hiding it.

He was almost certainly the only new parent of a baby dreading him sleeping through the night, leaving him without the handy interruptions.

“Hi, Greg.”

Greg jumped slightly, dropping his pastry on his top and almost slopping his tea over his hand.

“John, hi. I was expecting an answering machine.”

“No, I am actually capable of answering my phone.”

Greg paused halfway through brushing off his shirt. “You okay, mate? You sound exhausted.”

“Exhausted, yeah.” John gave a weak laugh, tinny electronic sound reverberating flatly in Greg’s ear. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Yeah, right.” Greg paused confused. “Anyway, I just wanted to check Sherlock was okay, you know, after your message. He hasn’t come down with anything has he?”

“No, not like that. You don’t need to worry about Ben.” It was John’s turn to pause, weighing up what to say. “It’s a side effect of the hormone treatment, that’s all. Well, I say that’s all. It’s not the flu or anything contagious.”

“Is he all right?” Greg frowned, imagining Sherlock bent over a toilet vomiting for days on end.

“Um, yes.” John sounded hesitant.

“Um, yes?” Greg repeated, mumbling around a mouthful of pastry.

“He’s having some kind of pseudo-Heat or something.” John finally admitted. “I’ve spoken with the specialists and there’s nothing to do but ride it out and hope he recovers soon.”

“And you’re answering your phone?” Greg asked, flinching back a little as he half expected to hear the noise of them going at it in the background.

“Pseudo-Heat.” John growled, which morphed part way through into a yawn. “Not an actual Heat.”

“I am going to regret asking this, I just know it, but what’s a pseudo-Heat?”

“It’s…” On the other end of the phone John faltered. “That’s what I’m calling it. I don’t know the medical term. There will be one, probably. There is for just about everything.”

“Uh huh.” Greg hummed into the phone. “Meaning?”

“It’s … a hormonal Heat.” John offered cautiously. “It’s like he’s got all the hormone driver needs, but his body hasn’t kept pace and reacted. He’s not producing any pheromones, for example.”

Which of course was why John Watson was free to answer his phone rather than being buried balls, or rather knot, deep in his partner.

“At least it will be over soon.” Greg offered lightly.

“I’m well aware, Lestrade.” John snapped down the line, aggravated enough for Greg to automatically pull back.

“Right, sorry.” Greg apologised.

“No, it’s fine. It’s me.” John sighed. “I’m just tired and it’s hard, not being able to help him. I’m a bit on edge.”

That’s an understatement, Greg thought.

“Two days, so I’m guessing it’ll be over soon?” Greg tried to sound encouraging. “Then you can, I don’t know, run around London like madmen without a box.”

“Until the next treatment.” John groused bitterly. “Sorry, sorry.”

“All good. I’d probably better let you get back to him.”

“Not really. It’s not like I can do anything except buy lube and make tea right now.”

John definitely sounded bitter.

“Yeah, thanks John.” Greg screwed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to wipe that image out of his mind. “I really didn’t-”

“Lestrade!” Gregson strode in ignoring the fact Greg was on the phone.

The other Alpha was still in his outdoor jacket and hadn’t even towelled the rain drops off his face, so Greg didn’t immediately flip him off, though he did glare pointedly at the intrusion.

“One sec, John,” he said into his mobile before dropping it from his ear and covering the microphone with his hand. “What Gregson?”

“Got a crime scene for you.” Gregson leant against his desk.

“Do your own work, and stop dripping on my forms.” Greg quickly moved the ones with the worst drips away and blotted them with a tissue.

“You’ll want it.” Gregson arrogantly assured him.

“Why on earth would I want a crime scene on a rainy, Friday afternoon?” Greg scowled at Gregson and prodded his leg where he went to prop on the desk, making him back off again.

“Your sergeant will want it.”

“Why?” Greg bared his teeth, keeping Gregson’s wandering fingers behind the proclaimed territorial line and off his desk. “No.”

“She really will.”

“Where is it?”

“Near the river.” Gregson gave him an innocent smile.

“Definitely no.” Greg had no wish to go anywhere near the Thames or its river bank, especially in the rain.

“Fairly sure it’s related to her pet case.” Gregson dangled the nugget carefully, knowing Greg wouldn’t deny Sally the chance to work through some of the barriers she’d run into and obsessed over for weeks, before reeling him in. “At least come and look.”

Greg continued to glare at him as he spoke into the phone. “John, I’m going to have to call you back… Yeah, you too. Bye.”

b

“So what do we think, is it him?” Gregson asked as they stood and watched Sally scurry down the embankment in her blue anti-contamination suit and sensible boots, heels wisely left under her desk back at the Yard.

“Donovan will be able to tell better than me.” Greg refused to commit to an answer. “We’ll see.”

“Bit of a funny placement, this one.” Gregson mumbled around his cigarette, puffing a few times to ensure it caught. “Up against that bridge in plain sight, but just inaccessible enough to preserve the scene.”

“Thought had occurred.” Greg grunted, hunkering down more in his coat against the rain.

“Oh, here comes judgement.” Gregson exhaled dramatically, blowing smoke into a cloud, well aware Greg had quit (again).

Greg ignored the sly glance and focused on Sally trudging back up to them instead, surreptitiously pressing the nicotine patch against his forearm. They were nothing like a real ciggy, but he had to admit it made running easier and it was all for Ben.

“Well, Donovan?” He called impatiently.

“It’s him.” Sally confirmed. “As far as I can tell anyway. If he’s got ID we’ll know for sure, but it’s him.”

“Sure you don’t want the case Lestrade?” Gregson radiated arrogant smugness like a furnace.

“Arse.” Greg looked at Sally’s pleading face and signed. “Alright, God help me, it’s ours. Send me the paperwork.”

“Always happy to do a friend a favour.” Gregson clapped him jovially on the shoulder.

“I’m doing you the favour.” Greg retorted.

Gregson laughed. “Agree to disagree. Now, if you’re taking over here, it’s almost five so I am off.”

Greg mumbled a selection of choice expletives under his breath as Gregson left, wishing he could summon the ire to be annoyed at Sally that he’d ended up in the rain, at a crime scene, at knock off time on a Friday.

“Alright, gimme.” He signed as he cautiously made his way down the embankment.

His foot slipped in the mud and he skidded several feet, wind milling his arms crazily for balance.

“Body’s been moved, Sir.” Sally pretended not to see him almost end up on his arse. “Only possible explanation.”

“Time of death?” Greg asked through gritted teeth.

“Not sure yet,” one of the blue suited figures called out in answer. “Hullo Lestrade, how’d Gregson con you into this one?”

“George.” Greg cautiously made his way over. “Possible missing person related to that body we fished out of the Thames in April.”

“Fair enough.” The other Alpha stood, removing his gloves. “The weather’s against us here. You’ll have to wait until he’s been to the morgue I’m afraid.”

“Come on, George. At least give me a window?” Greg brushed his sodden fringe back from his face where the hair had got just long enough to stick to his skin.

“When’d he go missing?”

“About April.”

“Then April up until… let’s say a day a go, at the minute shall we? If the body were stored correctly.”

“Right, yeah, thanks.” Greg snorted and gingerly made his way closer to the body. “So this is our missing Sub.” Greg sighed, looking at the young face.

“I think so.” Sally confirmed, carefully patting down their corpse’s pockets looking for a wallet and ID.

In death Bruce Carr cut an even more tragic figure than he had in life. His dark skin was ghostly pale, the pallor of death, and bruises littered the visible skin. Some, having progressed through the early stages of healing, must have been inflicted before he died. Others weren’t willing to give up their secrets yet.

He was still dressed, well dressed even. Where ever he’d been had obviously had all the necessary bathing facilities. Either that or the killer had washed and dressed him afterwards. Cause of death appeared to be the gunshot wound in his chest, just visible where the buttons on his dark shirt were undone, but they couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure until George sent through the report.

Greg could see why she thought the scene was staged . There was no blood obvious on the clothes, no blood anywhere visible in fact, and a distinct lack of a scuffle marks or even obvious tracks.

“Ah ha!” Sally gently worked the thin worn leather square free and flipped to the ID. “Bruce Carr, Beta Sub, age 26.”

Greg sighed. “All right, Donovan, all right.”

One of the SOCO guys held out an evidence bag for Sally to drop the wallet into. Another technician flipped the switch on the outdoor lights, which left them all blinking furiously in the harsh crime scene fluorescents. There were little yellow markers everywhere.

This was going to take ages.

“Okay, everyone.” Greg said loudly. “Let’s get this processed ASAP. Donovan, you’ve got point.”

He had a call to make and a baby to wish good night over the phone for the first time.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Sorry everyone for the delays with this. Trying to coordinate two people's schedules across a wide range of time zones is proving an interesting exercise. I've also had a ton on with work and life stuff, so I'm going to officially make if fortnightly updates for a while. Hopefully I'll get far enough ahead in chapters that I can go back to weekly soon.
> 
> If you speak French, this is the chapter for you. If not, I'm putting the English translations at the bottom. I was trying to get them to hover nicely or something, but couldn't figure it out. This might be a chapter to read on LJ where I did manage to get them all together neatly (took an hour!). (http://melody-in-time.livejournal.com/20259.html)
> 
> If they sound a little unnatural in English, that's because you're reading the English translation of the French translation of the original English.
> 
> Massive shout out to theartofprose who not only beta'ed this, but also did all the translations. Thank you!
> 
> Oh, and before I forget. I wrote a little expose on the different types of relationships in this world. Not relevant yet, but it will certainly help you understand things in the next few chapters if you read it. (http://melody-in-time.livejournal.com/20054.html)
> 
> EDIT: To help with the confusion, there's a newly and quickly composed explanation of Genders, Reproduction and Dynamics on livejournal. (http://melody-in-time.livejournal.com/20628.html)
> 
> Warnings: People being very arrogant rude people?

“So what do you think?” Sally asked, legs swinging idly.

Sherlock grunted non-committedly, eyes glued to the crime scene notes and photos spread out on the table before him.

They’d commandeered one of the bigger meeting rooms for this, covering the table with photo after photo of every angle of the body and the crime scene. Sally perched on the edge, denim clad legs loosely dangling above the ground as she watched Sherlock work. Greg was rather less elegantly sprawled across the corner with his feet up on the furniture, re-reading the forensic report and stubbornly ignoring the fact that it was Saturday and that his love was at home getting to spend quality time with their son, while he was at work for the second weekend in a row.

The whole week at been long – long days and very little progress. He’d gone home last Friday after finishing the preliminaries, reluctantly aware that he’d missed the opportunity to cuddle Ben before he was put down to sleep. Dinner had been waiting for him, kept warm in the oven for his late arrival. Taking an educated guess based on his tingling spidey sense (and knowledge of his love), he’d rapped lightly on the study door and waited.

“Just a moment.”

There was a light ruffling of papers and muffled thumps as Mycroft cleared whatever confidential material he wanted out of sight and locked up.

“Come in.”

Greg balanced his plate carefully so he could open the door. “Hey,” he greeted Mycroft who sat behind the imposing desk, its work surface clear. As was typical, he still wore his full suit, with his tie neatly knotted and perfectly straight. Just the sight of him made Greg smile.

“Evening,” Mycroft returned the greeting.

Greg moved into the room and slumped into the chair across the desk with a weary sigh.

“How’d he go down?” he asked, stabbing a piece of ravioli with his fork.

“With nare a whimper,” Mycroft told him arrogantly.

Greg grunted and listened to the light tone over the pompous look, deciding Mycroft sounded fond in the ‘still coming out of work mode’ way he had.

“That’s good.” Greg absently twirled his fork in the air, eyeing off the pasta square before nibbling off the edge. “I’m going to have to work tomorrow.”

“I suspected as much,” Mycroft sighed, leaning back in his leather chair. “I’m having some files delivered and have rescheduled my meeting so I’ll be home.”

“Good. That’s good.”

That had been the running trend. He hadn’t seen Ben awake and smiling all week. Now it was Saturday again and he still wasn’t home to spend time with his son.

John was a couple of chairs further again, morosely staring out the window. Greg hadn’t asked, but Sherlock was avoiding looking at his blogger with a dedication not entirely due to the case before him. Something was definitely up.

“Time of death?” Sherlock’s deep baritone rumbled through the room.

Sally’s lips pursed and she dug up the autopsy report. “Outside limit’s two weeks ago.”

She looked hopeful, as though Sherlock would prove Dr George wrong with an obscure observation about how the victim’s socks showed the body had in fact been preserved since May, but he just frowned and scanned the report.

“Do you think—”

“Not Remington, Sally.” Sherlock shook his head. “Date of death: he was well and truly in custody.”

He upturned the autopsy photos onto the table and sorted them according to his own logic, eyes darting everywhere.

Sally frowned in annoyance, but held her tongue and let him work; a massive change from all the previous posturing that had gone on between them.

“Maybe it was one of his gang buddies. A revenge thing or something,” Greg postulated.

“A gang hit, that’s what you’ve come up with?” Sherlock scoffed. “It’s not a gang hit.”

“Oh yeah?” Greg closed the report and scowled at him. “Do share.”

“No visitors.”

“Could have, I dunno, smuggled the message out.”

“No,” Sherlock scowled back. “It’s too good, too clean. This isn’t a gang killing by some low class enforcer. This is a professional.”

“A hit?” Greg asked sceptically. “On this bloke?”

“You can tell there are no traces of anything because unlike _someone_ Gregson had his teams take photos before they disturbed the body or the scene.”

Greg just rolled his eyes and ignored the jibe. It stung, but at least it was classic Sherlock.

Abandoning the photos Sherlock pulled the evidence bag with Carr’s clothes out and opened it.

“There’s nothing there,” Sally told him. “Not a thread, not a trace.”

“There’s always a trace,” Sherlock shot back, snapping his gloves into place.

His frown deepened as he pawed through the clothes and came up with exactly the same as the forensic team – nothing.

“Definitely professional,” he murmured, eyes lighting up at the challenge. “But not infallible. John, take a look. Tell me what you see.”

With a long suffering sigh John obeyed his Sub’s orders, standing and reaching for the first item.

“What am I looking for?” he asked in a resigned tone.

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently.

“All right, but no calling me an idiot when I get it all wrong. Again,” he muttered, turning the suit jacket over in his hands. “Well, it’s a jacket.”

Sherlock gave a huff that managed to sound derogatory and put upon. John just ignored him, well used to Sherlock’s derision of the obvious, but knowing more often than not it was where he found his inspiration.

“In good nick,” he continued. “New? Except the cuffs have been re-hemmed. Adjusted? Maybe?”

He turned it again to look at the label. “Westwood. That’s not off the rack, is it? You get some of yours near there. It’s tailored. So why have the cuffs adjusted then?

“It’s expensive. Maybe it was second hand and he had to take the cuffs up? Sherlock?” John looked up, studying the taller Detective’s face. “Need me to keep going?”

“No, no. You’ve said quite enough.” Sherlock held out a hand, his blank gaze staring straight ahead and not actually seeing the wall. “You did well. All obvious, but not incorrect.”

Greg smiled as John tried to look annoyed at Sherlock’s off-hand condescending tone, but just looked pleased instead.

The detective stood, running the navy blue material through his fingers, still lost in thought. It wasn’t a deep fugue: he hadn’t retreated into his mind palace so it wouldn’t be too long before he teased out whatever it was he was chasing.

“Professional indeed,” Sherlock murmured, not one minute later.

“Yea?” John asked, leaning on the desk between Sally and Sherlock.

Greg could see he was trying to avoid touching Sherlock because the Sub always claimed it was too distracting when he was trying to think, but he wanted to.

Sherlock blinked. Back in his head again. He began running long, lean fingers over the jacket lining, his sensitive fingertips smoothing the silk flat.

“Ah ha.”

There was a box cutter on the table they’d been using to slice photographs and recreate the scene. Now he applied it to the jacket lining, creating one small slit over Sally’s protesting “Freak!”

Ignoring the protest, Sherlock teased the slit open just slightly further and slid two fingers into the gap. Pulling them back revealed a white business card, plain on the back and obviously expensive.

The words ‘Did you miss me?’ stood out in bold, black typeface on the front.

Greg didn’t want to know. He suddenly really, really didn’t want to know.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” John asked grimly.

“I believe so.” Sherlock studied the card then held it out for Sally to drop into an evidence bag. “You won’t find who killed Bruce Carr.”

“We can’t just—”

“Moriarty doesn’t leave traces. Not unless he wants to.”

“Why,” Greg waded in, “would Moriarty kill an abused Beta Sub?”

“Organise to have killed,” Sherlock corrected him, fingers steepled under his chin as his mind churned. “Jim doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”

“So why did _Jim_ ,” there was a hint of steel in John’s voice, “organise to have him killed?”

Watching Sherlock’s mind work was like riding in a luxury car: you knew under the bonnet things were pumping away, but in the driver’s seat the superb suspension made it feel like you were barely moving. Not in his mind palace just connecting dots at the surface, Sherlock was much the same: his face smooth and disconnected while his mind whirled underneath.

“Dear Jim,” his whisper broke the silence, “please could you fix it for me to make my errant Sub disappear. The consulting criminal at work. This was business.”

“So it _was_ Remington?” Greg asked. “Thought you said-”

“That no one in his little gang could have managed it, yes.” Sherlock didn’t even deign to look at him, eyes fixed fervently in the middle distance. “Jim changes things.”

“Yes, let’s all hear how dear Jim changes things,” John muttered angrily under his breath.

Greg didn’t think he was meant to have heard.

“What could Remington offer?” Sally crossed her ankles, chewing on her pen. “He would have had to pay—”

“Won’t be a financial trail. Don’t waste your time.” Sherlock’s eyes were starting to gleam with excitement.

John Watson kept trying to incinerate the wall with his glare, mouth twisted into a distinctly unhappy scowl.

“I know that.” Sally snapped at Sherlock. “I meant Moriarty isn’t just for hire. You have to interest him. What could Remington offer to interest him?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched up in a delighted curl. “Me.”

“Okay mate, watch the ego.” Greg cast a worried glance at John, who seemed to be at the stage of angry he went dangerously controlled and still.

Clearly there were unresolved Moriarty issues between the two of them.

“Why else would he bother?” Sherlock broke off his staring match with the air to start shuffling the photographs of the entire crime scene again, looking for a Moriarty shaped hold in the evidence. “Why would he leave the body otherwise?”

“To dispose of it?”

“He can do that without you ever realising someone’s dead. No, no this was a message. The body was meant to be found.”

One particular photograph seemed to capture Sherlock’s interest. He peered at it, turning it around in his hands as though changing the orientation would reveal the secrets of the world.

“We could have found the card,” Sally scowled.

It was a relief, just a slight one, to see that while Sally and Sherlock would now work together they were not at the stage of doing so gracefully. John had told Greg before that Sherlock really did care more than he let on, and Sherlock himself had even tentatively expressed such a statement, but it felt fragile. Sally and Sherlock arguing was refreshingly normal and no little bit reassuring.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It’s his suit, isn’t it?” John asked in a staccato burst. “The one from the pool.”

The furrows around his eyes were especially deep and his thin lips were pressed together in a hard line. The Pool was not a good memory for John Watson.

“Tailored to fit Bruce Carr, yes,” Sherlock replied absently. “Carr would never have owned a Westwood.”

“That’s all well and good Sherlock, but I can’t go back to Packenham and Mulgrave and say Moriarty, that mad bomber we never caught, organised this, end of story.” Greg folded his arms.

“Question Remington, but I would advise you do so quickly and get everything out of him in one go. He’ll be dead soon enough.”

“Dead?”

“You don’t think he’ll be left alive once Jim knows you have made the connection, do you?” Sherlock sent Greg one of his ‘don’t be dull’ trademarked looks.

“We only held off questioning to wait for you.” Sally snarled.

“And now you have something to ask him about,” Sherlock smiled his fake smile, the one he used to annoy people, not con them.

“Break it up children,” Greg warned half-heartedly as Sally began to lightly growl. “I swear my 6 week old’s not as much trouble as you two. Speaking of, I’d rather like to get home to him, so, what’s next?”

“I’ll pull the gang members alibis together.” Sally flicked her hair, sending the bouncy spirals flying.

“Why? I just—”

“It’s called police work, Freak. That thing you never have to do to prove your answers.”

“I do prove myself.” Sherlock looked confused.

“Not in a way a court of law would acknowledge.” Greg stretched as he stood. “All right, Donovan, off you go. Don’t stay longer than 3, yeah?”

With a brisk nod she grabbed her jacket and left.

“And you? What are you up to now?” Greg eyed off the other child in his vicinity.

“Finding Jim.”

Not to be out drama queened, Sherlock collected his coat and sauntered out after Sally.

“You’d better mean thinking about Moriarty in your flat!” Greg yelled after him.

“I won’t let him do anything too stupid, Greg.” John still had that pinched look around his eyes.

“He really okay to be doing this?”

The short sharp exhalation was respected as was the resigned air of John’s response.

“He’s hormonal and bitchy and frustrating and needy, but is there anything that can stop him now he knows Moriarty is involved? No.”

“So just like usual then?” Greg tried gamely.

“Ha, yeah.” John rubbed his nose. “I’d better go or he’ll be halfway to Kent for some reason without telling me.”

“Good luck with that.” Greg waved him out then turned to pack everything up.

That was him: clean up duty.

He’d finished documenting the calling card in the evidence log and was sinking deep into a lovely sense of desolate martyrdom when his phone rang.

Just Sherlock demanding to be taken to the exact spot the body had been found.

“Oh, and bring the photos,” he instructed.

John was not with him at the bridge.

“Show me exactly where the body was left.” Sherlock demanded as he snatched the photographs from Greg with feverish anticipation.

“Over there.” Greg pointed down the muddy embankment.

“I said exactly, Lestrade.” Sherlock didn’t even spare the time to shoot Greg a withering look, he was so single-minded in his hunt for Moriarty.

At least this time it wasn’t raining, Greg reflected as he made his way carefully down the slope. With the sun peeking out behind the clouds and light breeze it was actually quite a pleasant day. Even the muddy brown Thames managed to look inviting, a silvery sheen dancing over the surface as the sun reflected off its rippling waves. Across the way old wharf facilities littered the shore, managing to look dignified and solemn with age rather than old and decrepit.

He should be at the park, taking Ben for a stroll and showing him the ducks. He was too young for them, but it would still be fun introducing him to the birds. Then they could go home and listen to nursery rhymes while Ben had tummy time before his nap. When he was asleep Greg could have gone and conned Mycroft into leaving his study to watch the match with him on the telly before dinner, maybe even managed to sneak an arm around him given how openly affectionate Mycroft had been lately.

That’s what he should have been doing. Instead he was attempting not to go arse over tail in mud because his shoes were not suited to this.

Sherlock, the git, had no trouble, smooth soled leather shoes or not. Sometimes Greg really did hate him.

“Right here on this one.” Greg indicated where the body had been positioned. “Up straight, legs extended. You’ve got the photos.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, not really listening, which meant Greg was fine to do whatever he wanted as long as it didn’t disturb Sherlock’s concentration.

It was a good place for a body dump, especially one you wanted found. This section of the Thames didn’t see much tourist traffic, but it was far from isolated so sooner or later someone would notice, but not so soon as to be likely to interfere with your plans. The sloping embankment meant no one would trample your message, preserving the site for the people, or person if Sherlock was right, you wanted to see it.

How did the body get there without leaving any traces? No footprints, no unusual disturbances, but too neat to have been casually tossed off the bridge. Lowered maybe?

“Why did he tailor the suit?” Greg wondered out loud.

“Because he’s vain,” Sherlock unexpectedly replied, sweeping pathways Greg had just looked over himself, but undoubtedly seeing much, much more. “He can’t stand the idea of an ill-fitting custom Westwood. He certainly has brand loyalty.”

“Not the kind of customer you want,” Greg muttered darkly. “Might be a way to catch him though.”

“No, already looked into it.” Sherlock dismissed his suggestion instantly. “None of the store assistants, tailors or designers recognised him. He must go in incognito, somehow changing his appearance without compromising the line of his suit or colour palette. Good thought though. Only took you a year.”

“Drat.” Greg heaved a sigh, sneaking a sideways glance at the Sub next to him.

Sherlock positively thrummed with manic energy. The single track focus was razor sharp and he was vibrating slightly. Anticipation, Greg assumed. If he’d been a dog his tail would have been wagging and ears pricked, narrowing in the scent.

The comparison alone worried Greg. Sherlock more typically resembled a cat – one of the large sleek predators with a streak of arrogant independence a mile wide. For him to bring to mind the slavish devotion of a dog rather than the leonine stalking of a cat. . . . Already. . . .

“Sherlock,” Greg started then trailed off. “Sherlock, I need you to promise me something.”

“What now, Lestrade?” Came the irritable response. “Remember to be a team player and not to go off on my own?”

“No, just try not to get drawn in by him.”

Sherlock snorted.

“I mean it.” Greg didn’t bother to hide how concerned he really was. “He’s done this for you.”

“I know.” There was a dreamlike quality to Sherlock’s voice.

“To lure you,” Greg repeated. “He wants you to chase him.”

“The best criminal mind of its generation.” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “How can I not oblige?”

“Sh-”

“Lestrade, do stop being tedious and go stand against the bridge. I want to test your arm span.”

~*~

The sky was still clear, the weather was still gorgeous, and Gregory Lestrade was heading home at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon with mud on his arse.

Of course Sherlock hadn’t slipped. No, as usual the dirty work was all Greg’s, and once he was down in the mud Sherlock decided he might as well stay down there and pose like their corpse, letting the cold, wet mud soak right through into his pants.

He was possibly being unfair. Sherlock was no prissy Omega despite the number of hair products he owned. He regularly went dumpster diving or undercover in less than sanitary locations, and grime was no barrier to detective work. Unless of course, there was someone there he could make do it for him.

So possibly unfair, but he didn’t feel like it. Not with his trousers plastered to his arse and stinking of the Thames.

There was a very expensive car outside Mycroft’s house. Of the very, very category. Greg would openly admit he was better at his bikes than his cars, but even he could recognise a Rolls Royce. A very distinguished but bored looking chauffeur sat in the front, openly watching Greg with suspicious eyes as he passed too close to the vehicle. Worried that he was going to breathe on it probably.

It could have been for someone else, but Greg wasn’t willing to risk money on that. Apparently they had a guest.

Christ Almighty he hoped he could sneak upstairs without being seen.

Greg opened the door as carefully and smoothly as possible, easing it closed with equal precision before quietly releasing the handle. After that were the shoes, because if Mrs Potts found tracks on her floor… Just in case he stripped off his sodden socks and balled them into his shoes as well.

He just had to make it up the stairs.

It was the way Mycroft was standing, just visible in the parlour, which caught Greg’s attention. His Omega was rigid, shoulders back and down, his back military straight. Shifting closer, Greg could make out the distant, bored mask he wore to hide everything other than the polite disdain it seemed mandatory for Alphas of a certain rank to wear or assume, except. . . something seemed off, even more wrong than Mycroft in full commanding posh tit mode in their parlour in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.

Unable to help himself, Greg sidled closer to the door, trying to work out _what_ it was that was wrong.

“. . . Really Mycroft, I do believe your handling of the Forburton situation could have used refinement. The Forburtons are well a respected family and it was too harsh of you. Matthew and I were speaking the other day and I assured him you would reconsider.”

“Lord Forburton was discovered committing fraud and selling Crown secrets to cover his debts,” Mycroft pushed back. “He should have stood trial for treason, not merely been sent overseas.”

“He’s a peer of the realm Mycroft. You can’t just exile a peer of the realm. No, I assured his Matthew you would recall him and provide suitable financial incentives not to reoffend.”

Whomever Mycroft was talking to, she was clearly both a work colleague and a snob. Her voice was a higher register than Greg often found pleasant, but well-modulated and refined. He bet she could shriek a house down though, if she put her mind to it; it was that sort of high pitched tone. The assurance and blatant assumption that she would be obeyed could be birth or breeding, Greg couldn’t tell, but something in him was leaning towards both, a Domme from a good family.

Mycroft didn’t respond, deciding silence was better than words, though he frowned just slightly.

“Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” the querulous voice scolded as if Mycroft had verbally retorted.

Greg frowned, inching closer to the door from what he hoped was a discreet angle. The Alpha in him bristled at the way this strange lady Dom was daring to speak to hi- Mycroft. Whoever she was, she was certainly opinionated and unafraid to share, expecting Mycroft to do as she said.

From where he was he could just see Anthea seated in one of the armchairs, focus on her phone as she pretended to ignore the scene in front of her. Greg had no doubt she could have detailed every second of it if asked, but she maintained the polite fiction of distraction from whatever was going on in the room.

Up close, Greg still couldn’t quite work out what was off about Mycroft – the ramrod posture and the cold, detached mask were all a given measure of normal.

“Are you going to come in? Or are you just going to skulk around doorways like the working class hooligan you are?”

Greg froze, the acerbic tones catching him mid-step.

“Yes, you,” they icily continued. “If you think us so unobservant as to miss the sound of your borrowed key in the lock, you might at least have considered the mirror.

“Not,” she continued as Greg reluctantly moved into the doorway, “that you’re welcome, **Stop¸** exactly where you are. This carpet is an Axminster and you shall not drip mud all over it.”

The dominant command shocked Greg into stopping as much as the order itself, especially when Mycroft failed to protest or even give a territorial flicker. From the doorway he could see her, exquisitely dressed and coiffed with expensive, but tasteful jewels. If she tended towards ostentatious with a ring on every finger and an ornate drop in each ear, she wore it well. Even Anthea in her bespoke everyday suits and carefully made up appearance seemed lacking in comparison.

Standing in the doorway barefoot, shoes in one hand dripping on the tiles and sodden off the rack trousers, Greg felt shabby.

Her gaze travelled over him, lingering on the dark circles under his eyes, stubble on his chin and paunch he’d never fully be rid of at his waist before disdainfully turning her nose into the air.

“Mycroft, I do not wish to be made known to this creature. You will **not** introduce us.”

“Of course not.” Mycroft demurred.

That this woman would presume to use a Dominant command on _Mycroft_ , who was a much stronger Dom, in his own home, and that Mycroft would just mumble his reply and acquiesce rocked Greg to his core.

That, Greg suddenly realised, was what was wrong, what had been screaming out at his instincts. There was no dominance, no command in Mycroft’s body language _at all_. The stature was there, the arrogant tilt, but none of the authenticity. Mycroft was actually ceding control to this woman, who accepted it as her due.

“Franchement, Mycroft,” she sniffed haughtily. “Finallement tu accomplis ton devoir et c’est lui que tu as choisi pour saillir l’héritier des Holmes? Je suppose que les Omégas choisissent vraiment n’importe qui quand ils sont en Chaleur tant qu’il à une bitte qui fonctionne.” [1]

In utter disbelief, Greg just stared at her.

Ignoring the utter lack of manners switching languages in front of him, how on God’s green Earth could she think it was acceptable to say those things, let alone to Mycroft’s face?

“Regarde comment il fixe le vide comme un animal. Si tu voulais vraiment un animal de companie, tu aurais les mêmes résultats si t’étais allé tourner dans le foin avec les chiens de chasse. C’est certain que l’issu aurait le même potentiel.” [2]

Greg glowered and straightened, spoiling for a fight. This obscene intruder could say what she wanted about him, but the implied insult to his son he wouldn’t stand for.

“Abernathy-” Mycroft started.

“Oui,” she drew out the word into a long hiss. “Abernathy François je crois?” [3]

Mycroft closed his mouth abruptly. His chin lost its upward tilt, actually angling downwards in . . . shame? Embarrassment?

“ **Ce vilain** ,” the derision was acidic enough to eat through the carpet, “est comment tu as choisi de décevoir ta famille? L’idiot? Ton état de Dominant reproducteur est gâché sur toi, n’est-ce pas? Sherringford, lui, aurait choisi une addition d’estime pour la Famille. Dieu soit loué que tu ne puisse pas montrer vôtre liaison à cause de ta condition.” [4]

“Mummy-”

Greg jolted out of his aggressive stance in disbelief. _This_ was the long fabled Mummy? A woman? Mummy was a _woman_?

“Pas un autre mot.” [5]

Mycroft stopped short obediently, swallowing back his words.

Her eyes narrowed, studying him and not liking what she was seeing. Nervously Greg’s eyes flicked to Mycroft, but whatever it was, he couldn’t see it.

“Mycroft. Je sais que tu n’as pas laissé tes émotions s’embrouiller dans cette situation éxecrable. De toute manière, ta . . . condition est déjà un assez grand handicap, n’est-ce pas?" [6]

“Bien sûr que non, Mummy. C’était qu’une liaison. Rien de plus,” Mycroft hurried to reassure her. [7]

Greg told himself he could hardly expect Mycroft to say otherwise, not with her beady eyes pressing down on them. Mycroft hadn’t admitted to Greg that he cared, despite his softer behaviour lately. He was hardly going to admit it to this witch. It still stung to hear though, how easily he was thrown aside without hesitation, especially on top of Sherlock’s dismissive attitude earlier.

“De toute manière,” she continued silkily, “c’est certainment pas qui tu aurais choisi pour la tâche. Je sais que tu as un goût plus fin.” [8]

The lingering implication was that Mycroft was slipping, failing to live up to her standards. Greg, knowing now the type of person Mummy dearest seemed to be, knew that those goal posts would keep shifting and that Mycroft never had and never would manage to satisfy her. Mycroft however seemed quietly devastated, if the little flickers Greg could see at the edge of his mouth and eyes meant anything.

It was clear this woman could play Mycroft like a drum. It was even more clear to Greg that she knew it and wasn’t afraid to flex that muscle on occasion when she thought Mycroft was getting too far from her control. Her presence here suggested that maybe he _had_ been winning, maybe Mycroft had genuinely been softening, and now she was here to push back.

“Et maintenant que tu as donné la Famille un métis comme héritier. . . espérons qu’il sera adéquat. J’ai confiance que tu es suffisament contrit de ton chois de donneur?” [9]

That was too far. She could say what she wanted about him thinking he couldn’t understand, and clearly would, but she did _not_ get to insult their son. Even worse, Mycroft’s chin was drifting ever downwards in shame, and at her raised eyebrow actually murmured, “Je vous prie de m’excuser.” [10]

“Soit.” The eyebrow didn’t lower. “Tes actions ont gâté le nom de Holmes pour des générations à venir. Regarde lui, couvert de boue et d’ordures après avoir fait Dieu sait quoi toute la journée.” [11]

“J’étais en train de garder vôtre beau-fils, en faite,” Greg replied angrily, a red film beginning to drift over his vision as he imagined exactly how many ways he’d love for this creature to disappear. [12]

Next to the Parisian tones of Mycroft and Mummy his own regional accent sounded particularly heavy. It was still, however, clear and unmistakeably French.

Through the red glaze of anger he could see Mycroft blanch. Mummy merely turned the eyebrow on him, coolly implacable.

“Oh, il parle,” she crowed. [13]

“Yes, _it_ does.” Greg shot back.

As much as he longed to yell at her, all that would do would made her feel justified in ignoring him.

“Now, as _it_ has ended up practically in the Thames this afternoon, _it_ is going to have a shower. Don’t feel obligated to say goodbye when you leave.”

It was all he could do to turn and walk up the stairs without punching her. How dare she talk about her grandson, step-grandson as the case may be, like that? That stuck up, insolent, good for nothing cow, who had probably never done a day’s work or nice deed in her life! That was the Mummy who ruled over all? That Mycroft deferred to? Would have sent their son to?

Over Greg’s dead body.

Blood pounding in his ears, water over his head, Greg almost missed the faint sounds of Ben next door. Might have, except for the happy squeal that Ben interspersed between his giggles. The need to hold him took sudden priority over everything, the anger, the need to get clean, everything.

Since the giggles were Ben’s happy and not needing attention sound, Greg took the time to redress instead of just pulling on a robe. Shaving went out the window, as did drying his hair, but clothes he managed before hurrying into the nursery. Ben’s genuinely happy squeaks at seeing him were the perfect antidote to the nastiness downstairs.

It didn’t matter what Mummy thought, Ben was the best and most important thing in either Greg or Mycroft’s lives and if his idiotic partner was too short-sighted to see that, well Greg’d just have to keep applying his boot to Mycroft’s arse until he realised.

The thought of downstairs made his blood begin to boil again, so he purposefully pushed it away. Anger wasn’t an emotion he wanted to expose Ben to, not if he could help it. Instead he turned Ben onto his tummy and encouraged him to push himself up and roll over.

He wasn’t quite managing, but Greg lived in hope.

It was the quiet tread of expensive shoes that alerted Greg to the fact Mummy must have left. Gathering Ben up and kissing his forehead, he lowered him into the crib and tucked the baby blue blanket around him.

The steps stopped just inside the doorway. Mycroft didn’t speak, so neither did Greg, smoothing the wisps of Ben’s hair back and tickling his chubby tummy while he waited.

“I didn’t know you spoke French.” Mycroft eventually said.

“Really? _That’s_ the first thing you have to say.” Greg didn’t turn around, but he stopped stroking Ben’s hair as the anger and hurt he hadn’t truly felt earlier roared over him.

Mycroft paused a moment, then continued. “You never mentioned you could—”

“ _Grégoire_ François _Lestrade_.” Greg spun around, pronouncing his name with its full French inflection.

His Da had never cared about making sure any of his kids could speak what was his native language and Greg had always used the anglicised form at school, but Pierre Lestrade had refused to rest until Greg could be called fluent and had persisted in calling him Grégoire despite many attempts to get him to cut it out. Sure, Greg hadn’t spoken French since his uncle had died, but that in no way meant he’d forgotten it. Not after Pierre had spent so long impressing upon him that it was his heritage and family legacy.

Mycroft had the grace not to meet Greg’s glare, letting his own gaze slide downwards to the side.

“You weren’t supposed to understand what—”

“Jesus, Mycroft! That doesn’t change what she said! What you agreed with her over!”

Mycroft’s hands clenched, then forcible released. “Mummy is very opinionated and—”

“She called our son a half breed!” Greg snarled, advancing two steps at Mycroft. “Said he was an animal, no better than a dog.”

“She wasn’t—“

“Yes, she bloody was, Mycroft!” Greg yelled.

Mycroft started at the outburst, eyes flicking to the crib and back to Greg.

“Now, let’s get something _very_ clear.” Greg continued at a slightly lower volume. “That stuck-up bitch can say anything she wants about me, because I guarantee I think worse about her, but she will keep her fucking mouth away from Ben. If you won’t stand up for our _son,_ well I bloody well will.

“That woman is not to come anywhere near Ben, ever, and I don’t care if she’s the Queen of bloody fucking England, she is never getting her hands on him. If I am breathing, she will never have anything to do with him.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Mycroft didn’t reply, frozen mask slipping over his face.

“Do I make myself clear?” Greg roared. “Because so help me God, Mycroft, I don’t care if you back me up or not, but I will tear her a new one if she comes anywhere near him.”

Ben started wailing, upset by the noise. Greg wanted to turn and comfort him, but that would mean losing whatever ground he had with Mycroft and he wouldn’t do that. Not over this.

“Crystal.”

Icicles were warmer. Mycroft’s voice was so cold it _burned_.

The capitulation didn’t help. Looking at Mycroft, the red film kept threatening to veil over his eyes and Ben’s upset cries were just working him further over the top into anger as he was reminded again and again how Mycroft hadn’t stood up for either of them – his son or his lover.

He couldn’t stay, not without descending into the kind of anger he didn’t want Ben to know was possible.

“I’m going to Baker St,” he growled and stormed out before he could make things worse.

If that was possible.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] “Really, Mycroft,” she sniffed haughtily. “Finally you fulfill your duty and this is the one you choose to sire the Holmes heir? I suppose that Omegas really do choose just about anybody when they’re in heat as long as it has a functioning cock.”
> 
> [2] “Look at how he stares dumbly like an animal. If you really wanted a pet, you could have had the same results if you’d lain with the hunting hounds. Surely the resulting issue would show the same promise.”
> 
> [3] “Yes,” she drew out the word into a long hiss. “Abernathy François I believe?”
> 
> [4] “This serf,” the derision was acidic enough to eat through the carpet, “is how you choose to disappoint your family? This idiot? Being a breeding Dominant is just wasted on you, isn’t it? Sherrinford, at least, would have chosen a creditable addition to the Family. Thank God you can’t advertise your relationship due to your condition.”
> 
> [5] “Not another word.”
> 
> [6] “Mycroft. I know that you didn’t let your emotions get involved in this already distateful situation. In any case, your. . . condition is already a big enough handicap/weakness, isn’t it?”
> 
> [7] “Of course not, Mother. It was just a fling/hook-up/one-night stand. Nothing more,” Mycroft hurried to reassure her.
> 
> [8]“In any case,” she continued silkily, “it’s certainly not who you would have chosen for the affair. I know you have a more discriminating taste.”
> 
> [9] “And now that you’ve given the Family a half-breed heir. . . let us hope he’ll be adequate. I have full confidence you are suitably apologetic for your choice of donor?”
> 
> [10] “I am asking for your forgiveness.”/"I'm sorry"
> 
> [11] “Just so.” The eyebrow didn’t lower. “Your actions have tainted the Holmes name now for generations. Just look at him, covered in mud and slime after God knows what all day.”
> 
> [12] “I was busy babysitting your step-son, actually,” Greg replied angrily, etc.
> 
> [13] “Oh, it talks,” she crowed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening everyone. So this chapter is completely different to others. Some of you might remember that at the end of the last story I asked whether anyone had anything they particularly wanted to see in the next instalment and I'd try to fit it in. This chapter is in response the the request by LiviKate for "a scene of Mycroft sneakily listening to Greg talking to his son. It could be just cute fluffiness or it could be serious confessions of concerns about their relationship or something like that. I just want to see Mycroft getting teary eyed from listening to Greg talk to his son when he doesn't know he's there :) preferably beautiful things about his mum, especially if they're kind of sad too."
> 
> Being me... that's not what we've ended up with at ALL. It's a lot less fluffy and sweet, and a bit more angsty ... and there's a lot less Greg... but it is the request that inspired the chapter so I shall credit it and back slowly away from all the sharp pointy objects. 
> 
> Just in case anyone missed it, at the extremely wise request of Baelorfan I've written up a bit more of an explanation as to genders, dynamics and reproduction. If you're a bit confused as to Mummy, or just want some more background info to better understand the world, please check it out. (http://melody-in-time.livejournal.com/20628.html)
> 
> Thanks as always to theartofprose for the dedicated work on this chapter. Appreciated and required as always. 
> 
> No warnings for the chapter

They’re hard to watch sometimes. Most of the time, really.

Some people would assume it’s because I’m jealous, or unhappy at being replaced. If I ever mentioned it, at least one of them would be ‘some people’ too.

I’m not. Jealous, that is. It was only ever physical between Mycroft and I, a convenient adjunct to our working lives. I won’t claim I don’t miss it sometimes, but that’s entirely to do with the quality and quantity of the sex. Mycroft can be an extremely. . . inspired Dom when he chooses.

No, they’re hard to watch because they could be - however that sentence finishes it would be truel – amazing, in sync. Perfect. The point is they could be, but they keep missing each other and they’re just …not. That makes them hard to watch.

Like now: miscommunication, confusion, both of them too overloaded by their pasts to manage that crucial shift so maybe they can fix things. From where I stand at the top of the stairs I can hear them: Mycroft not managing to apologise and say what he actually meant, Gregory not managing to hear the apology behind the hurt and rage.

I can already tell it’s not going to be today. This isn’t the incident where they’ll somehow find that middle ground they’ve been circling around since last December. Maybe even before that. Maybe since they first met, poetically drawing ever towards each other. Fate.

Mycroft would hate the thought. That’s part of their problem.

Lestrade leaves, striding self-righteously out of the nursery, clothed in anger, indignation and pain. His face does its usual dance when he sees me, trying to decide whether today I’m friend or foe.

Sometimes I’m an ally: the helpful comrade who got him access to the birth of his son and the fellow conspirator who helps manage Mycroft. Those are the days the cheer is genuine, even if its hiding how annoyed he is with his lover.

More often I’m a reminder, an allegory. Sherlock has the Work, Mycroft has Duty, and I am Duty personified, the one who keeps him late and picks him up early, who shuttles him away on mysterious weekends and unknown flights. He hates Duty, deep down, but Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade has no right to comment on it—not with his own record of nights at the office and overtime on the weekends—so he doesn’t and the bitterness sits, aimed at me if he absolutely must let it out.

The rest of the time I’m the enemy. More than a competitor for Mycroft’s time, I’m a competitor for his life, heart and bed—the gorgeous, talented ex still spending ten or more hours a day with his love.

There’s a difference between convenience and desperation, and while my arrangement with Mycroft was convenient, I am not desperate, but that seems to matter less and less since Ben was born and they took that great fracturing step together. The only two people I know who can move backwards by moving forwards.

Lestrade thinks he trusts us: that he doesn’t believe we’d do anything behind his back. He’d be right, if he really did believe that, but what Alpha is really comfortable in those circumstances, excluded on the side lines with no assurance of forever?

There’s nothing I can do about the excluded and nothing Mycroft will do about the forever. He’d been getting there, inching slowly towards accepting. Before all this. Before the Mummy shaped topping on the poisoned cake. Now, if not square zero, he’s certainly back to square one.

If the universe had been kind and everything about them and their relationship was normal, Lestrade would be getting increasingly aggressive, because that’s what Alpha Doms do when surrounded by all this uncertainty. I’m stereotyping, but stereotypes exit for a reason. As a Sub he keeps getting more withdrawn and bitter, pulling away from everyone and locking himself up in his head. A withdrawal Mycroft, buried deep in his own problems, probably sees as acceptance.

The Sub is withdrawing, not the Alpha. Very few people would notice, but Lestrade has had almost thirty years practice splitting his personality into segments. Every time he sees me it gets worse. Every time, the fracture in him grows a little more: the Alpha becoming more aggressive and as the Sub drifts further away.

He likes to think he trusts us because the alternative is more than he can handle. Lestrade has an almost unmatched ability to bury his head in the sand. Only Mycroft’s is better.

I’m not even sure if he realises: his smile is always friendly, but the eyes and the musculature twitches give him away. No, when Lestrade sees me, I’m always evaluated and mostly found wanting. Today I’m not a friend, but not necessarily an enemy. I can’t tell. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge me beyond the harsh tainted nod, and heads straight for the front door.

I continue down the corridor towards the nursery, heels silent on the carpet. I hear a sigh within and think Mycroft must have heard me, but it’s not me he starts talking to so I stop and listen.

I’m in intelligence after all and all information is valuable. Especially information about Mycroft. Especially if he doesn’t want me to know. Lately more and more of my job seems to be interfering between Mycroft and his own best interests, so forewarned is forearmed.

It was the sigh that clued me in first that this might be something to listen to. It was heavy, heartfelt, not exasperated or smug. A genuine expression of emotion—unusual for Mycroft Holmes.

“I sometimes wonder whether I made the right choice with you,” he says.

I can picture him, holding baby Ben in his arms and talking to him as the youngest and cutest Holmes stared up at him or maybe Ben’s in the cot and Mycroft is leaning over and speaking to him that way, with his fingers smoothing through the baby’s hair. I’m not sticking my head around the door to check.

There is another sigh and Mycroft continues.

“With your name, I mean. Making you a Holmes. It was the most logical choice. The family needs someone to inherit when I’m gone, and Sherlock and John will never produce children who are suitable, not with John Watson raising them. You’ll always be provided for, go to the best schools, never want for anything. If you want to try it, you can: music, science, art. It will all be at your fingertips and one day you’ll be the most powerful Alpha in Britain. . . . If you are an Alpha, I suppose.

“Money, success, purpose, access to the privileged of the world... I can give you all that. It was the logical choice. It still is logical. Easier for me too. If you’re an Alpha, well, they might finally be satisfied. An heir.

“I sometimes wonder though, if it was right. Do you think it was right? Would you have preferred to be a Lestrade? After today, I think he’d prefer it if you were.

“It would have been harder for you: less money, no privileges. You’d be in a two room flat with a parent who works too much overtime and constantly misses recitals and birthdays because he’s running down some criminal or another with your uncle. Not that you’d know he was your uncle. You’d be in a government school, not a public one – no great teachers, no peers with influence once they graduated, most without ambitions beyond graffiti and recreational substances. Cheap beer, most likely.

“Would you join in? Gregory had his punk days, would you follow that path too? Or would he have managed to scrape together enough to get you into somewhere else by then? He’d try—never underestimate how much he will do for you Abernathy, and he would try—even if it would mean more overtime.

“Would you have been happier? Having a Sire who loved you unconditionally and could show it? Scraping through life, but as a team? You laugh more for him already, smile. Would you still smile when you were older and could understand the struggle?

“He’s a better father than I am. He always will be, I suspect. Would that have been enough to make the difference?

“Listen to him, when you’re older, but don’t emulate him. Your Sire’s best traits are his unfailingly large capacity to care for everyone and everything and his unflagging sense of right and wrong. Don’t adopt them. Admire them and appreciate that people who think and feel like that exist, but don’t become one. You can’t. I gave you my name and my path, and on this road, caring is not an advantage and morals, well, it’s a very grey world, Abernathy, and you will operate from the shadows. Just like me.

“You could have had that, been that. Normal. Not ordinary, just normal, but I gave you my name. Because it was logical, but now that you’re here . . . maybe putting my path beneath your feet wasn’t the best choice.

“Remember this though. Remember that you are wonderful and you are loved. That you are perfect, and that no matter what happens, and what you do, your Sire will be there and he will protect you. From anyone. Always. Because he is a good person, one who cares _deeply_ , and loves you more than good sense should allow. He will chase away every nightmare, and take on everyone who ever dares criticise you, because he’s a good person, a brave person. Because he has a heart. Because he’s everything I’m not. Yet you’re mine. With my name.

“I’m sorry.”

Of course, Lestrade knows none of this. Will never hear any of this, because that’s not how Mycroft works. The doubts, the worry, the admiration and implied caring, will stay the providence of a baby who can’t yet understand English.

I back soundlessly down the corridor then proceed back towards the nursery, not muffling my footsteps as I go so he can hear me coming. Sure enough, Abernathy is safely ensconced in the crib and my boss has well and truly wrapped his walls back around himself in a frozen cloud.

“Ah my dear, has the car arrived?” he asks.

He knows the answer. I wouldn’t have come to fetch him if it hadn’t.

“Indeed, Sir. If we’re going to be on time to your meeting with the Minister for Education we need to leave soon. Mrs Potts has returned from the store and is downstairs.”

“In that case, my dear, after you.”

For Duty.

As if nothing had ever happened, and as far as the world will know, nothing did.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evening everyone. I'm so sorry for the delay. theartofprose has been extremely busy lately and hasn't had a chance to beta Chapter 14 yet, hence the wait. Having said that, I don't want you all to have to wait too much longer SO the solution is thus. This is the UN-betaed version of Chapter 14. Once the betaed version is available, I'll update it for you and if you'd like you can read the much more polished version.
> 
> It's been so long, short recap of where we were: Moriarty has returned, as Sherlock figured out at the Yard and then followed up with Greg at the crime scene, Greg has met Mummy and then proceeded to get into a fight with Mycroft and has stormed out, and Anthea, in the interlude, really wishes they'd get themselves together. I'd probably recommend going back and reading Chapter 12 to remind yourself what was going on if that doesn't jog things.
> 
> We're back in the world of the nobility, so I have dragged another poor noble family through the muck by stealing their name. Needless to say, it's all from my head, and nothing like reality. Basically, I went house shopping with my mythical billions and decided they had a nice looking house that suited my purposes. Images are available on their website (http://www.pylewellpark.com/gallery/), so you can go look if you'd like. It's not actually a relevant location for the story. Just a nice looking house. 
> 
> Otherwise, some pseudo-science (not real, very loosely researched) so please suspend disbelief for that.
> 
> Warnings: References to abuse, possible past suicidal intentions, infertility, unhealthy home environment, abandonment

Nothing was going well and John didn’t have faintest clue what to do about it. He wasn’t an idiot, despite Sherlock’s casual/angry/frustrated/annoyed proclamations, but he may as well have been.

It had all started during Sherlock’s False Heat, as John called it in his mind. Watching his love writhing on the bed and being unable to help had been hellish. After the first few hours when they’d discovered intercourse provided only temporary relief and brought the cravings back even stronger, John couldn’t even be a willing cock, no matter how much Sherlock begged, whimpered or cried. His role had been reduced to attempting to coax some food or water into Sherlock and, once he’d braved a sex store, cleaning the toys, providing lube and weathering the full gambit of Sherlock’s lust crazed moods from bargaining over food (“I’ll eat if you fuck me”) to anger (“If you’re not going you fuck me, get out.”)

There was probably a reason that neither party remembered Estrus with any clarity. Quite apart from the biological explanations, it was the only way to preserve any sanity. This one though he and Sherlock would remember: him as a time of helplessness, Sherlock as a time of humiliating lack of control.

He’d wanted to ask Sherlock whether he still wanted to continue the treatments now that they were slightly better informed of the side effects, but Sherlock had got his back up before John had really managed to broach the topic, spitting chips and stalking out. When he came back to the flat John could tell with one glance at the defiant expression on Sherlock’s face that he’d gone to the specialist and taken care of things on his own, even if the appointment wasn’t supposed to be until the next day.

“It won’t put your schedule out?” He turned back to the bench and continued making dinner.

Behind him Sherlock had scowled and thrown himself sulkily into his chair, where he’d stayed the rest of the evening, studying slides and giving John the silent treatment.

That was usual, normal, a textbook Sherlock sulk and John could handle that, especially when Sherlock stayed true to form and snuck quietly into bed an exact sixty-seven minutes after John had retired to wind himself around his Alpha in bed.

How Sherlock had decided on sixty seven minutes as the appropriate amount of time to wait John would never know, but in these moods it was always sixty seven minutes, no matter the time of day or night. John just wrapped his arms around his love, dropped a kiss on his neck, and fell asleep smiling.

He’d woken up with an erection, but that was also normal. Unusually, they’d both ignored it, John heading off to work and Sherlock to whatever he planned to do now he didn’t have a doctor’s appointment.

They’d ignored the next morning erection as well, but by Thursday John was feeling decidedly like he could do with a shag. Outside of cases they had a very healthy sex life, especially in the mornings, and unlike Sherlock he hadn’t been laying around on a hormonal sex binge the week before. John had in fact spent the last week watching the most gorgeous creature to walk the Earth beg him to join his desperate frenzy, and without the stress being unable to help Sherlock brought, those were very erotic images.

In his dream Sherlock was splayed out on an impossible bed, soft and hard as required, completely boundless. The plum silk made his skin glow and eyes flash steel grey. The dark curls were a little longer than reality so they tumbled loosely against the sheet. John wasn’t Sherlock to work out at a glance exactly how much length his subconscious had added, and he frankly didn’t care.

What he did care about were Sherlock’s perfect lips, red and roughened from stubble rash and more. In his dream he knew instantly that the more had been his cock, his Sub choking prettily, attempting to keep up with John’s punishing pace as he relentlessly fucked Sherlock’s face. From the depths of memory his mind provided the delicious whimper as he pulled out, Sherlock trying to follow and guide him back into the warm, wet, talented cavern that was his mouth and throat.

Logically, it was a dream because Sherlock’s passage was slick and ready as John sank in without any preparation, but there was no mindless rut from Heat. Instead Sherlock drew him in with deliberate intent, genius brain there and blazing even as he sighed and gasped and released little hitching squeaks in time to John smoothly settling deeper and deeper into the wonderfully tight heat.

Sherlock lifted his legs and wrapped them around John’s back, guiding him to the point that only his heavy aching bollocks were still outside Sherlock’s body. John’s fingers tangled with Sherlock’s elegant violinist’s ones, short and dextrous linked with long and graceful, as he tantalisingly withdrew and pressed slowly back in.

After the hard fast rush of Sherlock’s mouth, the gentle pace was teasing temptation. Sherlock sighed, tilting his pelvis to better accept John, entirely acceding to John’s pace. John dropped a kiss to the creamy chest, tasting the drying sweat and vanilla almond musk he always defined as Sherlock. On the next stroke he added a swivel in his hips, greedily swallowing the gasp of surprise and lazy groan of pleasure his lover emitted.

Gradually he sped up until the spark and sizzling burn was back and the laconic loving was again animalistic sex, with teeth and nails and John snapping his hips as fast and hard as he could to bring them both right to the brink of orgasm-

The alarm that morning had been especially cruel, leaving John rutting against the mattress, Sherlock’s whispered pleas in his ear, teetering on the edge of orgasm with the knowledge he was on afternoon shift and if he’d remembered to turn his bloody alarm off he’d have enjoyed a spectacular orgasm in his sleep instead of being left hanging, aching to be touched.

This was the erection that wouldn’t go away, and awake the sheets were no match for his Omega’s pliant willing body. With a growl John had got up, pulled on his robe, and determined that if he didn’t have to be in the office until later, maybe he could talk Sherlock into a morning shag before he resorted to his hand in the shower.

Sherlock had been at his microscope, dressing gown pushed back off pale, muscular forearms. As always, his posture at the scope was impeccable, back straight and shoulders relaxed. His ebony curls were at their darkest, still damp from the shower. They hung longer and looser, not dripping water, but still weighed down by the moisture locked within the strands. John knew they’d feel cool and slippery against his fingers, heavier and contained rather than flyaway and free.

Sherlock was still favouring darker shades, that morning jet black with only a minor black self-pattern as relief. He looked stern and imposing. He looked like Eros personified.

“Is the sample not behaving?” John had teased lightly, wrapping his arms around his Sub and burying his nose in Sherlock’s neck.

Clean and fresh, the expensive rosemary and mint body wash Sherlock kept for mornings and the insanely expensive hair products he used flooded John’s nose. Breathing in again he thought he detected a hint of almond oil, the base of Sherlock’s after shaving lotion that was definitely not moisturiser, no matter that Sherlock almost never had to shave yet almost always used it. The only thing missing was Sherlock’s own natural vanilla, buried under the artificial products he’d applied.

“If you think,” Sherlock hissed coldly, “that you are getting anywhere near me with that, you can think again.”

John sighed and released his hold. “Sorry for saying good morning.”

He’d got a low grunt in response.

“It would be nice though, now you mention it.” John’d purred, sidling in close again and dropping a meaningful kiss to Sherlock’s neck.

“No.”

“Come on, love.” John tried desperately to keep the whine out of his voice. “It’s been ages.”

“Sorry if I’m not in the mood to indulge you after last week’s sex marathon.” Sherlock shook John’s hold off.

“Yeah well some of us didn’t get to spend four days jacking ourselves into oblivion.” John retorted angrily, stun more than he’d like to admit by Sherlock’s brusque outright rejection.

“I’m not your fucking sex toy.” Sherlock had snapped, bursting to his feet. “Go use your bloody hand.”

The movement sent the chair toppling backwards, clattering noisily against the cabinet and landing with a sharp bang on the floor as Sherlock stormed away from his experiment, the kitchen and John.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Overly dramatic much?” John had snarled, righting the chair slightly harder than necessary. “No is no. I’m not some testosterone fuelled dick that’s going to pin you down if you don’t want it.”

Chair back in place, John had begun furiously collecting the necessary items for tea, slamming them down on the bench as hard as he could without breaking anything. One mug, one teabag, one cup of tea. No matter he usually made two. If Sherlock wanted tea, he could bloody well make his own.

By the time the kettle had boiled his anger was already beginning to run out. He had a temper; he knew that and had been trying to control it for years, mostly successfully, but Sherlock… Sherlock always had been an exception. Like Harry, Sherlock just slipped right past his control, had done from day one when John stared after him as the stranger who would forever change his life pranced out of the lab at Bart’s with a flirtatious wink and arrogant smile, irrevocably imprinting himself on John’s heart.

Not that Sherlock knew that at the time. Not that John realised it either, and when he did eventually work it out he’d gone through a minor existential crisis and questioned his very identity, unable to believe he’d managed to live more than thirty years with a gay sister and a vast number of very fit Dominant army friends without ever realising he might be bisexual.

He wasn’t, apparently, but it took almost a year with Sherlock to work that one out, and even then it was mostly because Sherlock had looked him in the eye and ordered, _ordered_ , John to get his head out of his arse and tie him up already.

Of course he’d fallen for the most un-submissive Sub in history.

Sherlock was infuriating, but usually John’s tempter cooled as fast as Sherlock riled it. That Thursday being no exception, John had sighed and pulled out an extra mug, flare of tension already working loose. His erection had faded too, a little, which at least made standing simpler though he had to fight the temptation to palm himself. That would have to wait for the shower, since evidently the topic was closed with Sherlock.

He could just imagine what some of his old army mates would have said – Three Continents Watson not able to get laid by a sex crazed Omega. Well, at the end of the day, there was a reason some of them were _old_ mates.

Tea ready, John had splashed the requisite milk in each mug, more in Sherlock’s who took his tea as milky as his coffee black, and collected the drinks, never doubting Sherlock wouldn’t let his go cold, but it was against John’s nature not to offer the silent apology.

Sherlock had been curled up on the couch, back to the room. Even his feet were tucked up, pulled into the narrow ball and buried in the seam between the couch cushions.

“I made tea.” John had said quietly, sliding the mug across the coffee table and backing away to his own armchair.

He hadn’t sat, just perched on the arm, studying the tan liquid while sneaking covert glances at the ball on the couch. The trembling ball. He frowned, watching another shiver travel along the silk-clad back and the ball curl in a little tighter.

“Sherlock?” He asked softly.

John didn’t ask if he was okay; there would be no response to that question. He’d just watched silently, trying to work out whether the trembling was cold or mild Sub shock, and whether or not his presence would be welcome.

A muffled sob accompanied the next full body convulsion. John had almost dropped his mug in surprise. No, Sherlock couldn’t actually be… could he?

“Are you crying?” He blurted out in shock.

“No,” Sherlock snarled, or tried to. With his voice choked up and the unmistakeable tremor behind it, he failed miserably.

“Bloody hell you are.” John had stared at the figure on the couch before his brain belatedly caught up with the fact that _Sherlock_ was _crying_.

“Oh, ‘lock, I’m sorry.” He had hurried over and knelt beside the couch, stroking Sherlock’s back. “What did I say? Whatever it was, I’m -“

“It’s not you, you imbecile.” Sherlock spat at him through gritted teeth. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Oh.” John had blinked and sat back on his heels. “That’s, that’s good, but then wha-”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock hissed back, rolling to his feet in one fluid move, fingers clenched into fists at his side.

John had a brief glimpse of Sherlock’s tear streaked face before his long legs were tearing up the room as he paced.

“It’s nothing.” Sherlock had angrily flicked more tears off his face with his fingers. “I’m not even upset, I’m just…”

Another sob and fresh wave of tears broke free and stirred John to action. Pressing to his feet in a cacophony of cracking joints, John’d intercepted Sherlock’s pacing and pulled him into a firm hug, refusing to let go even as Sherlock struggled in his arms. He’d just kept holding, riding out the protests until all of a sudden Sherlock had slumped, strings cut, and buried his face in John’s neck, arms gripping him just as hard back.

“It’s just the hormones, love.” John had whispered in the dark curls, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

“I hate it!” Sherlock growled back. “It’s just transport, but I can’t _control_ it.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” John pressed lightly, half nuzzle, half apologetic kiss. “We can stop, if you want, if it’s too much.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to keep having the treatments if it’s too much for you.” John had tried to reassure him.

“No.”

Sherlock started struggling again in John’s grip. His belt buckle had pinched the tender skin of John’s navel where his dressing gown had come undone, Sherlock’s socks slipping on the floorboards.

“Sherl-”

“I am having this child.” Sherlock wrenched free.

His face had been a mess of tears and stray curls were plastered down to his skin by the moisture. Tears still made new paths down his sharp cheekbones as he’d glared at John, red rimmed eyes filled with a ferocious mix of anger and pain, a snarl pulling his face into a twisted rictus of determination and grief. He’d looked wild, primal, torn apart and exposed in ways John had always dreaded because the broken pieces never quite fit back together the same way.

“Our child.” He’d whispered, holding out a hand as offering. “Together.”

Sherlock had hesitated, _hesitated_ , as though searching for hidden strings, then launched himself at his Alpha. John had caught him with a huff, letting Sherlock’s momentum send them crashing onto the couch. The angle had been awkward, but they’d missed the table and the arm, and once on the couch John was better able to position them.

“Just don’t lock me out.” He whispered desperately. “Please love, I’ll do anything, just talk to me, please.”

“I hate this.” Sherlock had hiccupped.

“I love you.” John had replied.

He’d cradled Sherlock for hours as he’d finally let it out and cried for no reason at all, until he’d finally slept and John had reluctantly slipped out from under him to go to work.

Not unexpectedly Sherlock had woken up by the time John had returned home and was back at the table in front of his microscope, where he’d stayed, despite John’s attempts to feed him, convince him to watch a film, and finally coax him to bed for sleep. Nor had he crawled into bed sixty seven minutes later, leaving John staring at the ceiling until he’d eventually succumbed to sleep in the early hours of the morning.

He hadn’t liked his alarm that morning either. Three hours sleep would do that to a person, especially a person waking up alone in the queen sized bed he was supposed to be sharing with his partner. Instead Sherlock was still at the table staring into his microscope.

“Sherlock, love, you need to sleep.” John had tried.

He’d tried toast too, and tea, both of which had been rejected by his strangely wrung out and listless Sub. He’d tried daytime TV, inviting Sherlock to deduce the presenters and a trip to Bart’s for yet more body parts. He’d even offered to fetch Ben for a spot of babysitting and not to tell Greg if Sherlock catalogued his reactions to various non-threatening, non-invasive stimuli, but there’d been no response.

Absolutely nothing, to any of them.

Just Sherlock sitting blankly at the table, refusing to interact with the world.

Now he was trailing behind Sherlock, Sherlock who looked like Sherlock with the fire back in his eyes and spring in his step, all thanks to Jim Moriarty. Not John’s brushed off comfort or caring offers. Jim Sodding Moriarty. Again.

Sherlock, who was climbing into a cab and not even remembering John had come to the Yard with him, giving instructions and shutting the cab door. John reached them before they drove off and dragged the door open.

“Hey mate. Already got a fair.” The cabbie yelled at him.

“Get the next one.” Sherlock waved at him languidly, fingers of one hand already steepled at his lips and eyes glowing. “I need to think.”

“Like bloody hell.” John retorted, climbing in and shutting the door.

“Oi, mate, taken.” The cabbie yelled again.

“Just drive.” John snapped back.

Whether the display of temper or the cars leaning irritably on their horns behind him, the cabbie gave in and drove. John took a deep breath to steady himself, then another.

“You can’t go off on your own, Sherlock, not if he’s back.”

John thought he sounded reasonable. Very reasonable given the churning emotional mess he was turning into inside. Sherlock gave a dismissive huff, disregarding the warning with casual indifference.

“I mean it.” John tried very hard not to snap. “He’s a psychopath.”

“A criminal genius, yes.” Sherlock breathed.

“Dangerous.” John insisted.

“Interesting.”

“Insane.”

“Oh undoubtedly.” Sherlock smiled. “Boredom would drive anyone into madness, let alone someone like Jim.”

He looked like a kid at Christmas, a prize winner at presentations, a bride at the altar. It made John feel sick looking at him, the ecstatic glow of a puzzle, the irresistible lure of the master criminal.

“What do we know then?” He asked quietly, desperate to stay connected to Sherlock and involved.

This was going to be the Great Game again, he just knew it. He could feel it in his stomach: heavy, heavy dread.

“Mmm.” Sherlock hummed instead of answering.

“Don’t do that.” John said firmly.

“Don’t do what?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“Baker St, lads.” The cabbie interrupted.

John blindly groped for his wallet to pay, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. “The face. You’re doing the face again.”

“What face?”

“The face.” John shoved a rough number of bills into the cabbie’s hand, hoping it was enough.

Half of them came back, so it must have been.

“Well I can’t see it.” Sherlock sniffed.

“You’re doing the ‘we both know what’s going on here’ face. If you were wearing the coat you’d have flipped the collar up to look all mysterious and cool.” John crossed his arms, a stubborn wall of wool and muscle on the pavement.

“I don’t do that.” Sherlock denied.

“Yes, you do, and you’re still doing the face.”

“Well we do know what’s going on here.”

“No, _we_ don’t, which is why I find the face so annoying. Not this time, Sherlock. This time you explain things and keep me in the loop.”

“I always keep you in the loop.” Sherlock dismissed his concerns, heading for the door to the flat.

“No, you always do a grand reveal.” John corrected him, moving into his path. “That’s not what you’re doing this time. Everything, every theory, every move, as you go.”

“That’s not how I work.” Sherlock disagreed, attempting to side step John.

John moved with him, still blocking the way. “It is now. It is for Moriarty.”

“So what, someone’s finally being interesting and you’re going to be my gaoler?” Sherlock angrily stepped left. “The game is on, John.”

“It’s not,” John stepped with him, “a game.”

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock stepped right. “The best, the only kind worth winning.”

“There’s a Sub lying dead.”

“Diddums.”

“You’re risking your life.”

“And it’s _mine_ to risk.” Sherlock stepped back, away from the flat. “Mine, not yours on loan.”

John didn’t follow him the step forward. “I want you to be safe.”

“How nice for you.” Sherlock spun back to the kerb edge, flinging his arm out for a cab. “I’m going to the crime scene. Alone.”

His face was defiant, daring John to protest, to insist he stay home or let John come too. It was a look John was all too familiar with – Harry had looked like that whenever Clara had told her not to have another drink. Those nights usually ended up with Harry at whatever crappy hotel room John had rented on leave, puking her guts up.

“Try not to fall in the Thames.” He replied evenly.

Inside he wanted to rage, scream and shout, demand Sherlock stop this nonsense right now and leave Moriarty to someone else, but the surest way to lose Sherlock for good would be to deny him the Work. Even if John didn’t like it.

A brief look of shock flitted over Sherlock’s face, followed by microseconds of guilt. He’d expected John to protest, to justify Sherlock storming off in a cloud of indignant fury.

“Let me know what you want for dinner.” John turned his back, climbing the steps to 221 and fumbling out his key.

“Case, John.” Sherlock reminded him. “I don’t eat when I’m working.”

“You do now, remember?” John managed the door.

Stepping inside and closing it was harder, but he kept it in until he’d made it up the stairs, safely into their flat. Just. The rumbling snarl was animalistic in its anger, but it was enough. It would bleed off the savage aggression, just enough for him to keep the rest of it locked away. He wouldn’t let it out again, couldn’t. If he started now he wouldn’t stop until the flat was in ruins and that more than anything felt like playing Moriarty’s game.

He cleaned instead – starting in the kitchen and attacking everything down to the grout with a toothbrush. Then he did the bathroom, pausing after to allow himself a shower and a new set of clothes after discovering, and spilling, an experiment of Sherlock’s under the sink.

Cleaning as an outlet was a mechanism he’d learnt in the army. He’d been lucky his Major had been perceptive because he’d come from a unit chock full of very strong Alphas, and sometimes the only way fights had been prevented was the warning presentation of a toothbrush just as it began to brew.

As a recruit he’d had to use the toothbrush a lot.

Since his discharge his other coping strategies had been all he’d needed – breathing exercises, iron control, long walks and the occasional mild shouting to let off pressure. So far, anyway. With Moriarty back…

He tidied the bedroom next, taking the time to carefully clean all his equipment and oil the leather to a supple shine. It was almost as relaxing as maintaining his hand gun so he did that next. He’d probably need it soon.

Sherlock wasn’t home for lunch.

John cleaned the main room, not caring he was disturbing Sherlock’s precious dust. He wanted it clean.

The downstairs door burst open, just audible over the vacuum John hastily packed away. His surge of relief crested and fell away as someone hammered on the door.

Not Sherlock then.

John sighed, switching on the lights as he noticed how dark it had become. It was after five, he couldn’t help but notice and nothing from Sherlock yet.

He wasn’t really surprised it was Greg hammering on the door.

“Greg, now’s not really a good-”

Greg stormed past him, clearly not caring whether or not John considered it a good time. The furious pacing and ferocious scowl didn’t make it likely he was going to leave either.

“If someone’s complained about Sherlock, he’s not here. He went to the crime scene.” John stayed next to the open door, hoping Greg would get the hint and use it.

“I know that.” Greg snapped at him. “I was there with him.”

“Oh.”

The tightness in his chest eased at the thought that Sherlock hadn’t gone alone. Not so much because he thought Moriarty would try something, but because Sherlock had actually taken the time to call for back-up. If not him, at least Sherlock had summoned Greg, probably quite rudely.

“Right, well, he’s not here if you’re looking to yell at-”

“I,” Greg threw himself into Sherlock’s chair, arms placed forcefully on the arm rests like a King making a grand pronouncement, “have just met Mummy.”

“Mummy?” John’s head shot up in surprise. Without pause he reached out to push the door shut. “He’s here? Why are you so angry? What’s he like?”

“Mum-my,” Greg venomously drew out the word, “is actually Step-Mummy and she is a _bitch._ ”

“She?” John gaped at him.

“Oh yeah, She. Lady Dom, and the most stuck up, arrogant, controlling, manipulative harpy I have _ever_ had the misfortune to meet.”

“I’m sorry; you’re telling me that that macho prick Holmes Senior was gay? Actually gay?” John was having trouble reconciling his view of Siger Holmes with the new information.

“Well, he married her, so yeah, I guess.” Greg’s fingers were digging into the arms of the chair.

“But-”

The door to the flat swung open, coming to an abrupt halt when it collided with John.

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked, the unexpected sight of Greg in their sitting room throwing him for a loop. Dismissing him as unimportant for the moment, he held out the plastic Tesco bag for John’s perusal. “I got milk.”

John accepted the bag, touched. It didn’t matter they already had two barely used bottles in the fridge or that Sherlock had got the wrong kind again. Sherlock liked the supermarket as a whole as much as John liked the self-service checkouts, and was about as good with it too. He never got milk, unless he was apologising.

“That explains how Greg got here first.” John smiled lovingly at his Sub.

Sherlock relaxed a little, realising he was forgiven and began nonchalantly pulling his coat and scarf off.

“Greg had an interesting visitor.” John commented as he made his way to the kitchen. “You and Mycroft have been holding out on us.”

“Pardon?” Sherlock frowned, pausing halfway through shrugging his coat off.

“Oh, yes.” John tried to look reassuring as he came back through, kettle on for tea. “Apparently he’s just met Mummy.”

Sherlock froze, eyes widening just slightly making him look like a wild animal caught in a hunters beam.

He swallowed. “Mummy?”

“Yep.” Greg smacked his lips on the p.

Sherlock broke into explosive movement, coat back up his arms and scarf back on before John had registered him moving. “Where? How long ago? Quickly Lestrade.”

“Ours, after I left you.”

“Plus time to get there, no that’s still time. I have to go.” Sherlock spun around, hand on the door handle.

“Go where?” John asked in surprise.

“Anywhere not here. Bart’s. I’ll go to Bart’s.” Sherlock hurried out the door, then poked his head in. “Don’t tell her that. Actually, don’t let him,” he jerked his head at Greg, “tell her that. She’ll try to make someone and it’ll be him, not you.”

“She’s not showing up here, Sherlock.” Greg told him, slouching back in the chair. “She left before I did, and I’ve been here a bit.”

“Oh.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering. “Maybe we should go to Angelo’s for dinner, John. My shout. We could eat in for once. I’m sure Angelo would love the chance to use his candles.”

“Or,” John broke in sternly, “you could come in, sit down, and explain a few things. You have a step-mother?”

“Unfortunately.” Sherlock muttered, reluctantly shedding his outerwear.

“And you don’t particularly want to see her, given you just about fled at the mention of her?” John prodded.

“Not particularly, no.” Sherlock threw himself dramatically on the couch, presenting them both with his profile and refusing to look at them.

“Any particular reason?”

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen, almost covered by Sherlock and Greg’s tandem derisive snorts.

“You’ve never met her. If you had you wouldn’t need to ask.” Sherlock lazily curled his fingers through his hair, affecting disinterest.

“You can say that again.” Greg growled.

“Well, Greg has met her, now, and a bit of… context might be nice.” John moved over to the couch and lifted one of Sherlock hands to his lips. “Please love? You know Mycroft’s never going to fill in the gaps.”

Sherlock grunted unhappily.

“Please? Forewarned is forearmed and all that?” John worked his ‘I love you’ smile, shamelessly exploiting Sherlock’s residual guilt from earlier.

Apparently, Sherlock still felt guilty and it was enough.

“Her name is Elizabeth Henrietta Ingham Roper-Curzon Holmes.” Sherlock answered waspishly. “She is a Dominant and not someone any sane person would want to spend any time with. I’d rather pass the hours with Anderson any day.”

“Condemnation indeed.” John settled into his chair to listen. “Old School?”

“Of course.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I thought all the old family Alphas got Omegas?” Greg asked. “Or did someone actually have a love match among that lot?”

“It’s not all arranged Bindings, you know. It is the twenty first century.” Sherlock turned his head to glare at Greg.

“Believe it when I see it.” Greg shot back.

Sherlock humped and turned back to the ceiling.

“Tell us?” John asked. “Please?”

Sherlock huffed. “Her Sire, Baron Teynham, had an affair with one of his household staff, not an uncommon occurrence. Nor was the resulting offspring. What was unusual, and for Mummy opportune, was that not long after she was born, the good Baron was in a hunting accident. He survived of course, but would never be reproducing again.”

John and Greg both flinched in instinctive sympathy.

“So suddenly robbed of any other offspring, the old Baron comes over all familial and decides to acknowledge and all that, so Mummy gets a proper education and upbringing and her mother gets sacked because the Old Baron’s Bound Omega feels a lot less charitable about the whole idea.”

“So she’s a baroness in her own right?” John asked. “Rags to riches?”

“Hardly.” Sherlock snorted. “Firstly, Mummy has never been without everything she could possibly want in her memory, and secondly no, she’s not the baroness. Her older legitimate half-brother presented as an Omega, so she almost snatched it from him. Eventually though Lord Teynham decided it was better to ensure succession and give the title to his son-in-law. Not before changing his mind half a dozen times in as many years though, so Mummy had to settle for a substantial dowry and the much more prominent Marquisate of Northampton instead.”

“Mycroft’s title.” Greg clarified for John, who had never actually realised that the Holmes family weren’t just rich, but were extremely rich and titled to boot.

“If he would ever bother to wrest it from her, yes.” Sherlock tucked his hand under his head. “Not that he will. She’s spent his whole life making sure he’s too under her thumb to ever conceive of it.”

“So your Sire was gay?” Greg asked.

“No, but he married her anyway. It was an arranged match, and Mummy came with significant financial incentives, after all.” Sherlock drawled.

They sat there in silence, the two Alphas watching Sherlock, waiting for him to say more. Sherlock continued to ignore their attention, still gazing up and away. He wasn’t actually studying the ceiling, because his eyes were still, fixed on one point. It was just to have something away from them to look at.

To look and to make clear his cooperation was under sufferance. His continued silence made it clear he was done.

“Who is Sherringford?” Greg asked into the void.

Sherlock’s lips tightened. “The Honourable Sherringford Llewellyn Ingham Roper-Curzon Holmes.”

“Holmes? You have another brother?” John sat upright in surprise.

“Half-brother.” Sherlock corrected him tightly.

“You have a younger half-brother?” John repeated. “Why have you never mentioned him? What does-”

“Older half-brother.”

John paused. “Older? But I thought you said you and Mycroft were full – oh. He’s the elde-”

“No.”

John stopped and hesitantly exchanged glances with Greg. It was unusual for an Alpha to have multiple children with one Omega separated by a son with a woman who was his wife. That didn’t tend to go down well with either party.

“Leg-itimate?” John asked, flipping his eyes back to Sherlock.

“Ye-es.” Sherlock mimicked.

John and Greg exchanged another glance.

“Sherlock, love,” John took a deep breath. “Idiot, I know, but I’m really not following.”

“That doesn’t surprise.”

The comment lacked the usual vitriol. Instead Sherlock sounded weary and resigned.

“Please?” John asked. He shushed Greg who was opening his mouth to speak with a wave of his hand. “Explain it for me.”

“Do I have to?” Sherlock whispered.

“Not if you really don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to hear it.”

“Of course we do, ‘lock. We want to know everything.” John studied the fragile face before him. “It won’t change our opinions of you, or Mycroft. We just want to know, be prepared in case anything happens. With Ben.”

There was beat, then Sherlock asked “Tea?”

“Of course.” John got up and started the kettle boiling again, glaring Greg into silence when he started to press immediately for more.

Greg’s mouth snapped shut swallowing his words, but it didn’t stop him glaring back, his anger still hot under the surface. Whatever Mummy or Mycroft had done, Greg was still plenty pissed off and the prospect of finally getting information out of one of the Holmeses was not actually calming him down. Not that John would have expected it to. It was the balance between Curiosity and Temper, and the more Curiosity was assuaged, the more he suspected Temper would return.

“Who mentioned Sherringford?” John heard Sherlock quietly ask as he poured the water.

“The harpy.” Greg drummed his fingers on the arm. “Why?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He was still in the same position staring at the same spot when John came back in and offered the tea. Sherlock didn’t move to take it, so John put it on the coffee table and went back for his and Greg’s mugs.

“What do you want to know?” Sherlock asked as John sat down again.

“Everything.” Greg insisted before John could speak.

“Just, from the start.” John frowned warningly at Greg, but he refused to look at him. “You’ve never told me your Bearer’s name. Since it’s not Mummy, I mean.”

“No, not her.” Sherlock swallowed. “Dorian. His name was Dorian.”

“Not very French.” Greg automatically commented.

“French?” John blinked.

Sherlock sighed. “If you’re referring to that awful clock, that branch of his family had been in England so long they didn’t even speak French. No, the French comes from Maman’s Sire, not Mémé. You’re more French than Mémé.”

Greg’s mouth pursed. “So you know about that, huh?”

“That’s you’re first generation English? Please, it’s obvious.” Sherlock scoffed.

“Yeah, well Mycroft missed the memo.” Greg looked sour. “Not the point. Keep going. Dorian.”

“Dorian Emanuel Vernet Montpellier, yes.” Sherlock paused again, gathering his thoughts. “I guess the story starts during Dorian’s year travelling after university. Worked hard, got his degree, off to see the world then back for settling down and a career. Usual story, I suppose. First stop was Italy, where, in what he saw at the time as the intervention of fate or whatnot, he finds himself being dragged out of the midst of a brawl he’d accidently wandered into by a handsome English Alpha, twenty two and halfway through his own Grand Tour.”

“Siger Holmes.” Greg sipped his tea.

“Yes.” Sherlock frowned up at the ceiling in thought. “He must have been different then. Dorian was young and naïve, but he wasn’t an idiot. He’d dated before, he knew the game, but…

“Holiday fling, they decided. After all, Siger only had six months travel left so it wasn’t anything serious. Siger was supposed to finish in Germany, which became Austria, then Turkey, then Greece, but they kept drawing it out.

“I,” Sherlock stopped dead and pressed his lips into a tight line. Patiently, John and Greg waited for him to start again.

“I’ve seen pictures.” Sherlock said in a rush. “Maman would show me pictures and tell me about their adventures, how they feel in love. I can’t recognise him, Siger. He looks different. Not younger. Different.”

“Happy? In love?” John suggested.

“Yes, both. Open. It’s not him as I ever remember. Maman always used to say he’d changed, that it wasn’t his fault. I don’t know, but I can’t believe Dorian would have fallen in love with him as I knew him, so maybe.”

“People do change.” John allowed a little stiffly.

He still wanted to dig up Siger’s grave and burn his bones though.

“Eventually Siger’d stayed almost the whole twelve months of Dorian’s trip and they fancied themselves in love, or Dorian did, whichever, so when he went into Heat towards the end of the trip, Siger stayed for that too.

“They Bonded. Surprised them both, but they were Bonded. Even more unexpectedly as he wasn’t at full sexual maturity yet, Dorian was pregnant.”

“Mycroft.” Greg guessed.

Sherlock nodded. “So twelve months up and deliriously happy, Dorian returns with his Alpha to England, where he discovers Siger is heir to an old and well off title and is already engaged to be married.”

“But they Bonded so…” John confirmed, leaning forward in his chair.

“Bonding isn’t actually a legal status, you know.” Sherlock’s thumb drifted over his collar. “He wasn’t bound; no collar. Not even a bracelet.”

“But they’d Bonded.” John repeated disbelievingly.

“Bonding itself is no guarantee of a happy relationship, John.” Sherlock snapped. “You already know he married her.”

“But they’d Bonded!”

The entire concept was incomprehensible to John. He honestly could not fathom how Siger Holmes could throw over his _Bonded Omega_ for someone else, someone he wasn’t even sexually compatible with.

“And he married her. He would have had to have a sanctioned affair at some point or another to produce a viable heir, so it was hardly unexpected. For him. Dorian… not so much.”

“Jesus…” John slumped back in his chair.

He’d never met Dorian Montpellier, never heard his name mentioned, but he felt for him. To go away on holiday, meet the Alpha you believed would be the love of your life and be thrown over _while pregnant_ for his _fiancée_ …

“What did he do?” John asked. “Dorian, your Bearer.”

“He was twenty-one and pregnant, what do you think he did?” Sherlock mumbled into his sleeve. “He cried and moved in with them like he was told to. Got his own room and everything.”

“Jesus…” John swore again at the reminder of just how young Sherlock’s Bearer had been.

“So, your Sire knocked up and Bonded an Omega, married the Bitch-Cow anyway, and had them both live together, in the one house?” Greg summarised, looking dumbfounded.

“It was a very big house.”

“Bloody hell. It could be a mansion and that wouldn’t work. Didn’t Dorian’s family say anything?”

“Like what? He was Bonded, that made him Siger’s _property_. It was still the sixties.”

“So they didn’t help him at all?” John could feel the little spark of anger flickering inside.

“Yes, they tried, there was just nothing they could do. I believe. I wasn’t exactly there. Certainly my understanding is that at first it wasn’t awful and Dorian didn’t want help.”

“Pregnancy pheromones.” Greg nodded, closing his eyes at the memory. “They do rather override a lot.”

“I’m sure Siger was very attentive during Dorian’s pregnancy. I imagine right up until the wedding Dorian was hoping Siger would call it off, and by then he was right on the cusp of giving birth.”

“Shit, poor kid.” Greg chewed on his lip.

John forced himself to take another sip of his tea before it got too cold. So far everything just seemed so farfetched, but there was no reason Sherlock would make this up. It certainly fit with Sherlock and Mycroft’s behavioural patterns, and if it were true, it was tragically appalling.

“I imagine life deteriorated fast. Mummy would have taken every indignity out on him, and Sherringford is less than a year younger than Mycroft, so there would have been a substantial amount of jostling for position going on.” Sherlock hesitated. “The Montpelliers and the Vernets, they’re not like the Old Families in England. Dorian wouldn’t have grown up with it. The politics.”

“So a lamb thrown to the sharks. Christ. She would have destroyed him.” Greg’s fingers tightened aggressively around his mug. John could tell he was wishing Mummy was there so he could punch her.

“He lasted two years.” Sherlock agreed.

“Lasted? What do you mean lasted?” John frowned.

“Before he left.”

“He left?” John blinked in shock.

“Good.” Greg smiled viciously. “He and Mycroft -“

“He didn’t take Mycroft.” Sherlock quietly interrupted.

“What?” Greg’s face morphed from feral triumph to sullen anger. “What do you mean he didn’t take him?”

“Exactly that Lestrade.” Sherlock sounded deliberately bored.

It was all John could do not to go over and hug him, but that would end the discussion and from the sound of what they’d heard so far, they needed to hear the rest.

“Mycroft was a baby. What do you mean he left his baby? Greg was back to full-fledged anger, the kind that leaked out in a snarl.

“I mean he had a choice between staying or leaving and he left, and Mycroft was a toddler, not a baby. Almost two.”

“So old enough to know he’d been abandoned.” Greg’s eyes flashed.

Greg, John thought, was biased against the whole idea. A new Dad, the idea of anyone daring to leave their child with people he considered entirely unsuitable for breathing let alone raising a child was as incomprehensible to him as being with someone not your Bonded was to John. John couldn’t imagine it either, but he was used to the idea that desperate people did desperate things. He’d seen the measures Omegas had taken in Afghanistan, throwing their children into compounds or leaving babies at the road side when a patrol was scheduled to pass, hoping that they’d get taken away to England to be looked after.

“Taking him wouldn’t have been an option. Do you really think Mycroft earned his position, Lestrade, that he was promoted into it? He _inherited_ it when Siger died, just like everything else. Oh he’s good at it, the best in generations, but the Family has occupied that position and that office for centuries. It was _created_ for them. How far do you think a penniless twenty three year old would have got, running away with the presumptive Holmes heir?”

Greg shook his head obstinately. “He should have tried.”

“He wouldn’t have made it to international waters.” Sherlock dismissed Greg’s complaint out of hand.

“It must have been hell.” John added quietly.

“Good. It should have been.” Greg snapped.

“To drive him away.” John clarified. “He would have known the consequences, being Bonded.”

He paused, not sure how to phrase the next bit. “How long did he manage?”

“Five years.”

“Too long.” The growl came from the other armchair where Greg had pulled right back and puffed up, arms closed.

“Greg,” John bit his lip, then went for it. “I’ve never met him, but I promise it wouldn’t have been an easy decision. Dorian’s as much of a victim in this as anyone else.”

“He-”

“Leaving meant he was condemning himself to a different kind of torture.” John interrupted. “It’s common knowledge Bonded Omegas go into Heat more often, one of those things everyone knows and so no one really believes.”

“So?” Greg arched an eyebrow.

“ _So_ , I’ve been reading up because of – reading up and apparently there is a correlation. Their Heats come closer together and last longer, trying to maximise the chance of conception. It’s why they usually have such big broods.”

John’s gaze flicked to Sherlock, then back to Greg. The Omega’s eyes were screwed shut. It was painful to look at Sherlock’s face and feel the answering throb in his chest.

Greg just stared at him, not impressed. John sighed.

“By the end he would have been going through Heat almost monthly, with no Alpha, and it would have lasted longer each time. That is torture of a different sort, and he would have known it was coming. To leave his child and run away _to_ that… whatever he was living through must have been worse.”

Greg looked chastened, slightly, but not forgiving.

“What happened?” John asked, turning fully back to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his eyes. John wished he would look at them, turn his head just slightly and make eye contact. Instead Sherlock just continued to stare off into space.

“He negotiated.” Sherlock said. “He needed Siger, but by then Siger needed him just as much in his own way. It was common gossip his Bonded Omega had run off, an even bigger scandal than marrying someone else since it was a blatant political match. Neither of them, Mummy or Siger, wanted to play Sub more than they had to and if he had so much as touched anyone else she’d have had his balls ripped through his wallet. After five years, I imagine he was desperate to get off.”

“Undoubtedly.” John shifted in his seat, his erection from the day before still an unfulfilled memory.

“Dorian was older and wiser, more worldly, had some of his own money. No much, but enough to be more confident, so he set his terms and stuck to them and eventually Siger gave in and agreed.”

“What were his terms?” John was curious, especially as it was acceptance of them that had set the stage for his love’s existence.

“His own place. That was the main one – he refused to live with them. He would spend his Heats with Siger, but anything else Siger would have to earn. Any children stayed with him, though he couldn’t deny Siger access, and he got access to Mycroft.”

“But Mycroft wasn’t to live with him?” Greg frowned.

“He did by the end, but at first he didn’t want to. He hated Maman.”

“Because he left.”

“Yes. I imagine he was told all sorts of things about him in the meantime. He never passed them on. Later he said once, when he was older, that he understood, he agreed with what Dorian had done. I don’t know if he’s changed his opinion again, with Ben. He might have. You have.”

John could see the pinched look on Greg’s face as the strike hit home, and mentally applauded Sherlock. Before Ben, Greg’s view was, get out however you can and get help for yourself and the kids once you were out, or leave the baby on the Sire’s door step if it was a different person. Now, with Ben, his opinion actually more closely resembled the general populations – how dare you leave.

Greg didn’t say anything back. Neither did Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” John prompted him.

“Yes, yes.” He took a deep breath. “Maman never told me what happened when he came back. Mycroft might have been told more. Mycroft was told a lot, towards the … So he might know. He’d probably remember anyway...

“Sherringford does, or liked to pretend he did. He’d tell me things, about how Dorian w – about how things were when he came back. He’d go on and on about how awful it was, being forced to live with him while the house was finalised, about how to make sure he knew his place they’d leave him locked in his room while he was in Estrus and have sex next door where he could hear because he was just Siger’s Omega slut, not his wife, and there was no way Mummy was having that under her roof.

“It might be true, or it might not be. Sherringford was trying to be cruel, but that doesn’t necessarily make it more or less likely either way. Given my birthday, I wasn’t conceived until Dorian had been back in England for over six months though, which suggests it might be more rather than less accurate.”

“I thought you said he got his own place.” John frowned; the itching need to violate Siger Holmes’s grave in some despicable manner growing again.

“It had to be renovated first. I assume Siger insisted he stay at the estate until after that.”

“It might not have happened first time?” Greg appeared to be trying for a measure of comfort.

“John.” Sherlock intoned deeply, handballing the denial squarely into his Alpha’s lap.

“Huh? Well, late twenties, early thirties, it’d be, I mean most, well-”

“What John is trying unsuccessfully to skirt around is that a non-defective Omega in his late twenties to mid-thirties would still be at peak fertility and especially after so long away from his Alpha, conception would have been instantaneous. That I’m not a triplet says more about Siger’s virility than Dorian’s fertility.”

‘You aren’t defective.’ John wanted to say. He wanted to go over and wrap himself around Sherlock and whisper it in his ear again and again and again and again until he believed him, but the brittle undertone meant Sherlock wouldn’t have accepted the comfort, and John couldn’t stand to be rejected, not when his heart was already so bruised for and by Sherlock.

The pain must have shown on his face, because Greg flashed him a look and then turned back to Sherlock, forcing out another question while John collected himself.

“So, shouldn’t there be more or you then? Siblings, I mean. Are there? More of you?”

Sherlock’s lips pressed harder, fine wrinkles fanning out of the corners before he consciously relaxed them. “There was one more.”

“Uh, was?” Greg blinked furiously, looking extremely hesitant as he realised exactly what he’d wandered into.

“Older half-sister. She died not long after her first birthday. There are photos of us together as babies at a Christmas, but I believe that was the only time I met her.”

“Right so uh…” Greg frowned.

John assumed like himself Greg was slotting older, first birthday, Christmas, and Sherlock’s birthday in early January together to come up with a couple of month age gap between the her and Sherlock.

“But, uh, no other full siblings?” John jumped in. “Or half, half is fine too.”

“No.” Sherlock looked disinclined to say more, so when he suddenly continued, it was over John opening his mouth to ask another question. “When I was about eighteen months, Maman got sick. Very sick. Enough so that Mycroft was taken out of school to come to London _in case_. The doctors never reached an official diagnosis, but the barrage of tests they ran did show that whatever it was had destroyed his fertility and it was unlikely he’d ever have another Heat.”

“Christ.” John took an involuntary gasp of breath.

“Bloody hell, and they never figured out what it was?” Greg looked as stunned as John felt.

“Officially, no.” Sherlock’s toes flexed against the couch. “Unofficially, during some unrelated research of my own at university I noticed that his symptoms and the lingering effects could all be explained by a sufficiently large dose of levonorgestrel.”

Being much too experienced to expect Sherlock to explain chemicals in any comprehensible way, Greg turned to John. “Levonorgestrel?”

“It’s, uh, one of the active ingredients in suppression meds. Prevents ovulation. I suppose administered in a large enough dose it could be toxic, anything is, and yeah, could probably cause fertility issues, but we’re not just talking overdose. We’re talking massive overdose and it would have shown up in his blood work.”

“It was missing.” Sherlock said quietly.

“Missing?” John asked.

“His blood panel.” Sherlock clarified. “I was overdue a check-up and stole his file while I was there. Either no blood panel was ever run, which would have been blatant negligence, or the results were incriminating and someone removed them from the file.”

“Are you suggesting your Bearer was poisoned?” Greg asked wide eyed. “By whom? Mummy? Christ, I’d believe that.”

John could too. The only children Mrs Holmes had seen fit to produce were, or would have been, almost twins with their half-siblings. Having just lost a child, her husband’s loathed Bondmate due for another Estrus cycle and so another child any day…

“Maybe.” Sherlock seemed non-committal. “It’s better than the alternative.”

“Your step-mother trying to kill your mum is the _better_ option?” If John needed any further proof how messed up the Holmes family was, he had more than got it.

“The alternative is that Maman was desperate enough to almost kill himself instead of go through another Heat with Siger ever again, so apologies if I would prefer to believe he didn’t take that risk.” Sherlock snapped, shoulders hunching as his body partially rolled into the couch and away from them.

“That’s … yeah. Better.” John found it difficult to speak around the lump in his throat.

It was awful, all of it was awful. The fact that Sherlock preferred to think that his step-mother had tried to kill his Bearer, and from what Sherlock wasn’t saying very nearly succeeded, rather than believe his mum might have taken the risk of dying and leaving him alone instead of continuing on as he had… John swallowed heavily as he realised there was a third option Sherlock had carefully skirted around: That Dorian Montpellier had purposefully and with deliberate intent tried to commit suicide with some other drug and the blood panels had been removed to try and hide that.

The overhead lights seemed unspeakably harsh with the mood that had settled over the room. It made John wish he’d turned on the lamps instead, less of a glaring spotlight washing out Sherlock’s already pale skin and highlighting every line on Greg’s tired face.

His tea was cold, but John found he didn’t really want more. He didn’t want a drink either, though he felt like he needed one. The very idea was repugnant, so instead he got up and closed the curtains. If he was being honest he’d have to admit he didn’t really want to hear any more. What did that say about Sherlock’s life, that John didn’t want to know more? What did it say about John?

“So did you used to live at Mycroft’s house?” Greg asked as John tried to settle.

“The Knightsbridge house, yes.” Sherlock stayed curled on his side.

“So, did you, uh always have the room on the third floor?” Greg was fiddling with his mug, but not drinking the tea. It was probably cold too.

“No, but it’s been renovated since I had my original space there. If that’s where your questions were leading.”

“Just making conversation.” Greg took a sip of tea and pulled a face.

“You’d probably know it as Mummy’s room. I decided to move up to the third floor away from - after the first renovations. Mycroft used to have the front room, if that’s your next query.”

“The Blue Room” Greg perked up a bit.

“It is now, yes.”

“That’s my room now.” Greg actually beamed, reading a sentimental undertone to Mycroft’s room allocations. “So why did you move upstairs?”

The folds and valleys, cliffs and pools of dark material, trembled as Sherlock’s body, which had been loosening by the tiniest increments known to man, jolted back to full stiffness.

“Sorry.” Greg pushed as far back into his chair as he could, as if giving Sherlock a few millimetres extra space would let him relax. “Bad question?”

“It’s a logical progression.” Sherlock allowed.

His voice was flat, completely devoid of tone, variation or emotion. Empty. It was a control technique John recognised from Mycroft who almost used it as a default state of being. Sherlock generally channelled his emotions through protestations of stupidity and boredom, not absence.

“Do you want to stop here?” He asked into the curtains, feeling like a coward for the small portion of himself hoping Sherlock might say yes. “You’ve said enough. More than enough.”

The quiet noise of Mrs Hudson’s radio filtering through from downstairs as she prepared her dinner was the only intrusion.

“There’s not much left.” Sherlock eventually said, rolling onto his back and resuming his staring at the ceiling. “The relevant bit, the bit you asked about, really. Mycroft and Mummy.”

He seemed reluctant to go on, like he was forcing himself to get it all out in one session so he could slam the door on his past and never have to look at it again. John wondered whether he should put a stop to it, never mind the rest of the story, and just hold Sherlock, reassure him that everything was okay. He didn’t, just because he wasn’t sure which one of them he wanted to reassure.

“It was good, actually.” Sherlock atonally droned as John took his seat. “The next few years.”

A small involuntary smile tugged at his mouth, releasing some of the tension in John’s chest.

“Mycroft was an overbearing overprotective lout even then, so he’d visit on school holidays and take me places. The park and the library mainly, we were too young to go anywhere else unaccompanied. He forgave Maman over time, understood why he’d left from the differences in the households we were living in. By the my third birthday he was living with us and commuting to school, only going back to the Estate for the same mandatory visits I had to make twice a year.

“They didn’t care, at first. Mummy wanted us out of sight, out of mind, so she was happy for Mycroft to be gone. Gave her an opportunity to expand Sherringford’s claim and influence. After all, technically he’s the only legitimate one out of the three of us. Siger didn’t care as long as we showed up to his birthday and Christmas and he could trot Mycroft out to dinner with whatever old cronies he was trying to impress. He didn’t care for the child aspect of having children. Having us with Maman would have been like having a full time nanny. He wouldn’t have seen us at all, except he, or maybe Mummy, didn’t want to give Maman the satisfaction. He used to make us spend Christmas at the Estate, even though we didn’t do anything and he didn’t see us, just so Maman had to spend it alone.

“Then, I don’t know, he realised how much influence he’d lost over Mycroft, or maybe Mummy did, or maybe he had another disagreement with Mummy and wanted us, Mycroft really, in her face more, but he started trying to insist on more visits. Maman refused to let me go, and Mycroft said he didn’t want to, so Maman wouldn’t let Siger force him.”

The flow of words cut off and the slight awe at his Bearer’s defiance of his formidable Sire melted away, leaving the blank emptiness on Sherlock’s face, an ugly scar covering years of devastation and despair. He was shaking, muscles locked so hard he was trembling.

“Sherlock, love,” John started, pushing out of his char. “You can stop. It’s okay. You-”

“No.” Sherlock yelled, stopping John in his tracks.

“No,” he repeated firmly, voice wavering into a semblance of control. “You wanted to know. You _will_ sit there and _listen_.

It didn’t surprise him Sherlock had picked up on John’s discomfit and desire not to continue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to know, didn’t _need_ to know everything Sherlock had been forced to suffer through, but if he’d realised how heavy it would be, how many old infected wounds they’d stumble over how hard it would be for Sherlock to relive, and him to watch Sherlock to verbalise, he would have worked out a way to carve it up into chunks, a tidbit here, an explanation there, and he wouldn’t have done it when Greg was there, let alone had stormed in angry.

“Okay,” John swallowed, slowly lowering himself back into his chair. “Okay, tell us the rest.”

In the corner of his eye, John could see Greg swallow reluctantly and flash John an almost scared look. His bluster had well and truly run its course over the evening, surging and falling again and again as his own neurosis had come in and out of play. Now it appeared to have burnt out, run low, and left him feeling small and nervous, as worried about how much more they’d hear and how much further they’d push Sherlock as John. Wondering whether it was already too far.

The detective’s eyes were wild, stormy grey irises almost swallowed by black pupil. One hand was still buried in his hair, the other buried under his thigh, so John couldn’t see his fingers, but there was no doubt in his mind they’d be white knuckled and vibrating with nerves.

“It was Mycroft’s fault.” Was Sherlock’s opening line. “Something would have happened eventually, but the when and the where were all down to him.”

John looked away, checking that Greg wasn’t going to take it the wrong way. The Alpha Sub seemed to struggle with what to say, competing concerns for the brother evident on his face.

“How do you mean?” He settled for asking diplomatically.

“He presented.” Was Sherlock’s painfully simple answer. “He was the Alpha son, the Dominant heir-presumptive, destined to carry on the Holmes legacy and achieve great things. He was already being taken to dinners, introduced to important people, the next big thing. Siger Holmes’s golden boy.”

“And the massive pain in Mummy’s arse.” Greg couldn’t help contributing spitefully.

John glared at him and Greg avoided his gaze.

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed, missing the inherent aggression in Greg’s comment that removed the requirement for a response. “Why do you think she’s expended so many years of effort on him? Then suddenly, overnight, he’s an Omega, they think. In the confusion no one could really tell what had happened, especially as it was at Maman’s during the school holidays and Maman deliberately obscured everything as much as he could. He and Mycroft spent a lot of time locked up together in the immediate aftermath talking.

“Mycroft went back to school, then for a visit to the Estate to try and ease tensions a bit. Throw around his dominant mass to reassure Siger and keep him off track. I think that was the plan. It failed horribly, as Mycroft went into another mild pubescent Heat while he was there. Mummy seized the chance to have him checked over, prove what he was, and there was nothing to stop her.

“Siger was furious. As far as he was concerned, Maman had somehow turned his Alpha heir into a useless Omega, fit for nothing except _Binding_ and _breeding_.” Sherlock spat the words out as if they were poisoned, toxic syllables that might contaminate his mouth if left there any longer.

“It’s not possible to do that.” John uselessly denied, feeling the need to add something.

“Logic, John. Siger blamed Maman and decided enough was enough. Logic didn’t come into it.”

Sherlock’s arm was shaking so violently John was worried he was going to hurt himself. Even worse, it was completely absent from his voice, hard won iron will overruling everything he’d let break through during the evening.

“What did he do?” John asked, wanting everything over so he could start to help Sherlock get himself back together again.

“We were in my play room. I remember the sun was out; it was falling on the carpet. It made all the different colours on my puzzle so sharply. I was only four, struggling to make out the picture. I had a dog, Redbeard, after the pirate. He was napping in the corner, enjoying being let inside for once. He’d had to be scrubbed down and dried before he was allowed to set a paw on the carpet, but he always loved it when he was clean and allowed in, even if he didn’t like the cleaning process.“ Sherlock’s voice sounded dead, too dead for describing such a lively scene. “Maman was reading to me. I can’t remember his voice. I can remember the book, the cover, which piece I was struggling to fit into my puzzle, but not his voice. I’d rather remember that, really.”

John realised his traitorous hand had started trembling in the tension and clenched it tight, attempting to get it to stop. The feeling coiling in his chest wasn’t pleasant, a sort of unnatural cross between dread and fear, and was slowly working its way up and around his heart, ready to squeeze.

“People burst through the door, MI5, MI6, police, Interpol, I don’t know. Maman leapt up, demanded to know what was going on, and they pointed their guns at him. One of them grabbed me, refused to let go even when I bit him. He almost dropped me when Redbeard bit him, but Redbeard had bigger teeth.

“They shot him, shot Redbeard for trying to get to me. Because I was scared and there were strange people in the house and he was trying to protect me. He just sort of yelped as he went down. An Irish Setter, dumb as two bricks, but gorgeous russet fur and so much heart. You couldn’t even see the blood under all his fur. He twitched and whimpered, and they just let him lie there and bleed out, pointing their guns at Maman.

“They told him to leave, not to come after us if he didn’t want to end up like Redbeard. They called him that mutt. Maman, not Redbeard. Said the agreement was over, should have been over years ago since he was no good for spitting out kids anyway and he wasn’t going to be allowed to ruin anymore Holmes heirs. Told him to give them a reason, it’d be easy, just putting down another foreign bitch and a mongrel to boot.

“They carried me out, put me in a big black car back to the Estate, and I never saw him again. The end.

“Happy now?”

“No!” John blurted out in shock.

Stunned Sherlock’s face whipped around. It was the first time since they’d started that he’d faced them and he looked bewildered, shocked, at John’s response.

Shocked and hurt. His mouth, lip chewed raw over the past hour, hung open and his eyes were red rimmed and shimmered with years of unshed tears.

“Didn’t the police get involved?” John demanded. “Why wasn’t-”

The disbelief faded the lines of new hurt smoothing back, leaving the old scars and scathing neutrality.

“You didn’t call the police on Siger Holmes.” Sherlock turned away.

“That is ridiculous.” John fumed. “It’s appalling! It’s-”

“Life.” Sherlock blandly intoned.

The casual acceptance wasn’t doing anything to help John’s anger. His grip on his temper slipping, the rage building over this, that Siger had subjected _John’s_ Omega to that, was tremendous. He needed, he needed –

Sherlock looking hurt. Sherlock being hurt because he was forced to rip open these tentatively healed wounds. Feeling like John was angry at him.

\- tea. He needed tea, right now, otherwise he’d be spending the weekend patching Mrs Hudson’s wall again.

He stormed into the kitchen and slammed the power button much harder than was actually necessary to start the kettle heating.

He was angry, furious, mad as hell that any Alpha could act that way to his Bonded and their children. Alphas were supposed to protect, nurture, not kill their four year old’s dog in front of him and threaten to do the same to his mother. For Christ’s sake, they were Bonded. How could Siger justify it, any of it? The abuse, the neglect –

“Breathe, John.” Greg was standing as far away as possible while sharing a bench space. “He’d gone, dead. There’s nothing to do there and being angry won’t help.”

“Someone should have done something.”

“That’s the anger talking. What would anyone have done?” Greg didn’t wait for his answer, just plunged on through. “Remember what you said earlier when I was pissed off at Dorian for leaving? You said he didn’t have a choice and that he couldn’t have taken Mycroft as well because the Holmes family would have shifted hell to get him back. It’s the same here.”

“Someone could have tried.” John stubbornly insisted.

Greg was right, John knew he was logically correct, but this was Sherlock and _someone_ should have been there to stop him suffering.

“Tried what?” Greg pushed back. “Calling the police? Could you imagine calling the police on Mycroft, right now? If I tried to arrest him for something it’d be even odds as to whether it was his high-priced attorney or my own boss from on high who got to me first, assuming I even got him to the station. Wouldn’t manage the charge sheet. I could have Mycroft Holmes standing over a dead body, holding the murder weapon, with the whole thing caught in crystal clarity on film, both faces clearly in shot, and I couldn’t make the charge stick.

“20, 30 years ago? Siger Holmes probably owned the police. Dorian was just a hysterical Omega. You know the origins of hysteria as a disorder, you’re a doctor. They thought for years not being able to have children must mentally unbalance Bearers. What could a mentally unstable Omega do against his wealthy powerful Alpha?”

“That’s not the point.” John’s knuckles were white and the veins on the back of his hands bulged.

“No, the point is Sherlock’s just re-lived his own personal hell, or bits of it anyway, so now is not the time to indulge in your own selfish vendetta against things that can’t be changed.”

The kettle clicked off and Greg began sorting through the cupboards for tea bags.

“It’s not selfish.” John denied. “I’m angry for him.”

“Is it helping him?” Greg asked.

“W-”

“The answer, by the way,” Greg blithely talked over him, “is no. So stop indulging in being mad and go and be reassuring, yeah?”

Turning Greg handled him two mugs of tea, his and a new one from the cupboard.

“Right,” Greg dusted his hands off on his jeans, “you’ll need to do your own milk. I’m off. Haven’t exactly got the answers I thought I would, but I don’t know what I was expecting so… Certainly explains Mycroft’s self-loathing of his gender. Anyway, I think you two need to be alone for a bit, yeah, and I really want to see my son now.”

John didn’t reply, staring absently into the dark liquid.

“Okay there? Calmed down?” Greg looked concerned.

“Yeah, yeah, calm.” John nodded. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it was enough for it to occur to him he should be checking Greg was alright as well. “You okay?”

“Exhausted.” Greg sighed. “Been up and down like a yoyo all day.”

“It’s been a long one.” John agreed, feeling his own blanket of fatigue begin to numb everything away.

“It’s been a long week.”

“God, yes.” John sighed.

“All right, I’m off.” Greg clasped him gently on the shoulder. “I’ve got a minor government official in training to get to bed. Don’t forget to put the milk in.”

Walking back into the living room was hard. There was a wariness on Sherlock’s face as he approached that really did pound home that he’d messed this up. He didn’t know what to say, not just to fix it, but at all, so instead he silently held out the tea.

Sherlock accepted it, but he didn’t drink it and his fingers didn’t make contact with John’s even though it meant holding the hot ceramic base.

John really didn’t know what to say.

“I wish your Sire was still alive.”

It wasn’t the opening Sherlock had expected and his eyes widened slightly.

“Because then I could kill him.” John finished, a little surprised by the vigour in his own voice.

“I don’t need your pity.” Sherlock hissed, eyes narrowed.

John sighed and sat on the coffee table, the blanket of fatigue pressing further down on his shoulders. It really had been a long week emotionally. Only that morning he’d been running the emotional mile over Jim Moriarty and this lovely sprint to the end hadn’t helped matters at all.

“It’s not pity, Sherlock. It’s not even sympathy, yet. I’m just angry, so angry at your Sire, and your step-mother, and the whole damn world for not doing right by you, and your mum, your actual mum, and I just … It wasn’t fair, what you went through.”

“Life’s not fair.” Sherlock carefully pushed himself to a seated position, sipping his tea.

“I know. God, I know.”

Taking Sherlock’s acceptance of his tea as an acceptance of his apology, John reached out and entwined their fingers, drawing Sherlock’s hand to his.

“You,” he said fiercely, “have been through so much and come through it better than… anyone I can think of. You are the strongest person I know, bar none, and I wish, wish you hadn’t had to prove it. I wish I’d known you then, so I could have protected you, or at least supported you, whether you needed it or not.”

He pressed his lips firmly to Sherlock’s knuckles and flipped his hand over to press the same again to his palm. He lingered there, breathing the scent of leather, mud, and Sherlock. Sherlock’s bracelet gleamed against John’s own, oiled and buffed to perfection where John’s was already showing wear.

“I just can’t understand how he could do it, any of it.” He mumbled into Sherlock’s hand. “How could any Alpha treat his Bonded like that? His children like that?”

“Bonding is no guarantee of a happy relationship.” Sherlock squeezed John’s fingers.

“I don’t get it.” John shook his head, nose running along Sherlock’s palm, moist with John’s breath.

“Of course not.” Sherlock set his tea aside and stood. “You’re nothing like him.”

He disengaged their hands and walked through to the bedroom, leaving John to tidy away the mugs and follow after. When John did, taking a second to splash water on his face as he went, Sherlock was waiting, kneeling head down in the middle of the floor, hands upturned on his thighs in supplication.

This he could do, was a role John knew well and had embraced with absolute dedication. He could feel his spine straightening his stride altering to regulation length. Emotions, guiding Sherlock through the past, neither of those were his strong point. This though… this…

Slowing to a halt, he fell into the muscle memory, weight spread, feel on the correct angles.

“What do you need?”

It wasn’t a question, despite the phrasing. It was an order, a command for information so he could gauge exactly what Sherlock needed, what he thought he needed, what he wanted, and what he would get.

“To hurt, Captain.” Sherlock replied, head still angled down.

Pistol gripping the lanky detective’s chin and raising it to the light, John made sure Sherlock could see Captain Watson was very much in control.

“You will.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all. Still no update on when there will be betaed chapters, but as with the previous update I'm going to post the un-betaed version and once theartofprose has some time we can fix it and provide the betaed version for you.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has kept reading despite that massive delay in updating. Believe it or not, story wise we're still on the same day as the previous three chapters.... Hard to accept given it's taken well over two months for us to traverse the same time period. Thanks for sticking around and hopefully things can be more speedily updated.
> 
> Warnings: very slight early onset depression?

For the second time that day Greg found himself sneaking quietly into his own house. Even just that thought, that realisation, drove home to him how exhausting a day it had been, and he had to take a second to lean against the door and breathe.

He was drained. The emotional roller coaster: the case, Mummy, the fight, Sherlock, God, Sherlock… Greg had never expected a pleasant backstory to the Holmes family, but by now they were so far past the benign neglect he’d theorised on years ago it wasn’t even funny. Having the family pet shot in front of your son… Jesus…

Every time he heard more his view of the wider Holmes family got progressively worse. Mummy had gone from being a flighty Omega to controlling step-mother to bitch from hell. Siger, well, he’d already been pegged as an abusive bastard. Now Greg didn’t doubt he’d be getting a report about vandals, or a very short and determined vandal, breaking into a cemetery and desecrating a very particular grave.

If Sherlock was ever dumb enough to tell John where it was, that is. He might not even know. It was the kind of thing Greg would have happily deleted if he’d been Sherlock.

The depth of the potential was what scared Greg the most. There was nothing in what Sherlock had said that outright would be abuse against either Holmes _child_ (though he’d certainly have made a go of it with social services if it had been one of his cases), but an Alpha who would do that… Mummy, who even now sliced Mycroft to ribbons with just a few well-placed words… The _potential_ carried its own pain.

Never ever would Mummy have anything to do with Ben. He would never go to visit, never go to parties, never _meet_ her because she was poison and she would _not_ have the chance to harm him. Ben would be theirs and be happy and if he needed a shrink when he grew up it would not be because his parents had _abused_ and _abandoned_ him his whole life, emotionally or otherwise.

John clearly still saw Siger as the greater evil, the revenant hovering over his son’s lives. He hadn’t met Her, hadn’t been in the same room as Her and felt her toxicity soak ever outwards, infecting everything as it went. Greg had and he was no longer sure it was a Spector causing the troubles at the feast. Not a dead one, anyway.

Ben would have a good life, Greg vowed. He’d take a stand, make them talk and Ben would have the childhood neither of his parents had had. He had no illusions it would be easy, but even if it meant a few fights now it would be better than later when Ben would remember them. Soon, they’d do it soon, and Mummy was only one of the topics they had to cover.

Greg exhaled in a heavy, elongated sigh. Apparently he was still upset. Under all the emotional havoc, he was still smarting at the rejection. Not Mycroft’s Sub, he repeated in his mind, not his Sub. He’d allowed himself to forget again. With the way Mycroft was being so attentive it was hard to remember that from his end all he was offering was friendship and sexual fidelity, and even that was based more off convenience and a lack of desire to look elsewhere than anything softer.

He’d have to go back to reminding himself. Mycroft cared, but not like him. More than he’d let Mummy know, Greg hoped anyway, but nowhere near as much as Greg himself.

Friendship and sex and a life and a son.

Greg pushed off the door and started wearily up the stairs. He’d have to reiterate to Mycroft that he understood the terms and that wasn’t where his issues lay.

Running a hand through his hair, Greg indulged in another long sigh and scrubbed at his scalp. He’d check on Ben first, then bed.

The door to the nursery was open, the pale glow of the bedside, or rather cot-side, lamp just visible as a long golden sliver on the floor. Mycroft must still be up with Ben despite the time.

Well-oiled hinges swung open without a creak at Greg’s touch. The side lamp was indeed still on, as was the CD player, its electronic screen showing the number of tracks on the CD, waiting for someone to press play again. Ben was with Mycroft, both of them sound asleep in the ancient rocking chair.

It was an unbelievable scene for anyone only acquainted with the Mycroft Holmes the rest of the world knew. Asleep his face had relaxed, most of the tension sliding off though he still carried stress in the faint lines around his mouth and eyes. The light highlighted the auburn glow in Mycroft’s hair and the warmth in his otherwise severe charcoal waistcoat and trousers. His jacket was hung neatly over the back of the chair, exchanged for the blue blanket that he’d wrapped around Ben, who lay nestled in his arm, tucked up against his chest.

Greg smiled and turned off the CD player.

“All right little man,” he whispered, easing Ben from Mycroft’s grip. “Let’s get you tucked into bed, shall we?”

Extracting Ben without waking him was a challenge, one that required frequent pauses as Ben’s sweet little face screwed up in a not so sweet scowl, but eventually Greg managed to work him free without waking either of them.

“Okay, beddy-byes time.” Greg cuddled Ben close and surreptitiously checked his nappy to make sure it didn’t require changing before he put him down.

It was dry, so with one last kiss to the dark wispy strands Greg lowered him into the crib and pulled the cover up. Then he turned his attention to the other Holmes.

Mycroft looked adorable, asleep in the rocking chair and still clutching Ben’s rabbit tight. He had in fact rearranged the animal slightly in his sleep, cradling it the way he’d held Ben. More than adorable, he looked soft and approachable, open, loving, and Greg had to force himself to repeat the words he’d drilled into his head downstairs. Not his Sub, not his Sub.

Unable to resist the impulse he snapped a photo with his beyond ancient phone and ignored the lump in his throat.

He could just leave Mycroft there, cover him up with a blanket and let him wake on his own, but Greg drove a desk as well and he knew that angle was murder on the neck when you woke, no matter how comfortable you were when you fell asleep.

“My,” he whispered, crouching in front of him. “Wake up, My.”

Mycroft grumbled sleepily and clutched the stuffed rabbit closer, settling back to sleep with a sigh.

“Hey now, none of that.” Greg scolded, fighting to keep a light tone. “Come on, that’s Ben’s.”

Had Mycroft ever had a stuffed toy as a child? The Alpha heir presumptive, was that something he’d been allowed or a crutch and sign of weakness taken away too soon? More mysteries, and all of them made Greg’s chest hurt.

“You’ll thank me in the morning.” He started tentatively rubbing Mycroft’s knee, trying to bring him to wakefulness.

Mycroft so usually came awake all at once it was always a treat to see him doe eyed and struggling back to awareness. This was the third time Greg had seen him like this. It made him feel special, and that was dangerous.

“ ’egory?” Mycroft mumbled, eyes mere slivers “Came b’ck.”

“Course I came back.” Greg stood and held out a hand to help My up, trying to ignore the way his heart ached at the simple statement.

“Mmm.” Mycroft hummed, accepting the help and shuffling forward to lay his head on Greg’s shoulder. “Home.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed, letting an arm slip around My’s waist, “I’m home. Just needed some space to let the anger burn off, that’s all. Didn’t want to scare Ben.”

Mycroft nodded into his shoulder, and Greg guiltily let his eyes fall closed as he enjoyed the embrace. God at times Mycroft made it so easy to forget.

“There’s nothing wrong with him.” Mycroft said suddenly into the silence. “You know that right? No matter what she says, there’s nothing wrong with him.”

The hand that wasn’t holding the velveteen bunny fisted instantly in Greg’s shirt front, desperate to prove to Greg that their son wasn’t some kind of half-breed freak. As if Greg needed any convincing. It helped though, the earnest look in Mycroft’s eyes as he pulled back far enough to see Greg, the urgent tone in his voice. It was a weight off Greg’s shoulders he hadn’t known he’d been carrying and he drew Mycroft forward again, kissing his temple.

“I know.” He whispered into the dark strands. “He’s perfect.”

He nuzzled Mycroft’s hair and took a step back, loosening his grip.

“He’s also asleep. Come on, before we wake him and he refuses to go back down.” Greg couldn’t resist one last look into the cot as he passed to turn off the light, Ben still sleeping peacefully. “Nighty night Benny boy.”

“You’re upset.” Mycroft said quietly, toes digging into the carpet where he stood.

Greg managed not to snort and repeated his mantra in his head just to make sure he remembered it as he picked up the monitor. He waved Mycroft out of the room, choosing not to comment that Mycroft hadn’t left the rabbit behind and was now squeezing it in two hands as a substitute umbrella.

“Yeah, I’m upset.” He agreed once they were in the hallway. “I’m angry: angry at you, angry at your harpy step-mum, at your Sire. Just because I’m too exhausted to feel it doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed off.”

“Mummy…” Mycroft hesitate, choosing the right words. “…is very strongly opinionated. She will-”

“Don’t say change her mind.” Greg warned. “A bit of advice for the future: do not defend her to me, and she will never change her mind. Not unless she gets a better deal out of it.”

“You don’t know-”

“I know people like her.” Greg shook his head. “She will only ‘change her mind’ about me if it’s to her advantage.”

Mycroft’s lips pursed, but he didn’t dispute it.

“Come on,” Greg held out a hand to Mycroft. “We need to talk, but I’ve had one hell of an emotional ride today between Mummy and Sherlock, and it can wait until morning. Sherlock’s not the only one pushed too far today, I think.”

Mycroft frowned at him, no less demanding because there were no words.

“We asked what the deal was with Mummy and how that worked, John and I.” Greg pulled his hand back and tucked it in his jeans. “He said a lot more than either of us were expecting, and it wasn’t all necessarily relevant , so I think it was more once he started stopping wasn’t on the cards. Probably needed to get it out or something, but on top of all the fertility issues and Moriarty being back I think it pushed him a bit too far. John too.”

“Moriarty?” Mycroft pulled his lips into a long, thin line.

“Responsible for the body I’ve spent the last week investigating, yeah.” Greg dug his fingers deeper into his pockets. “Apparently.”

He was tired. He didn’t want to have to stand there and discuss Moriarty, not then, not there. He’d have preferred never having to let the psychopath into the life he and Mycroft occupied together at all, but that wouldn’t happen. If Moriarty was back some way or another Mycroft would end up involved.

No, what Greg wanted was bed and sleep, so that he could close his eyes and pretend, if only for a little while, that when he woke up all this would have gone away, a figment of his imagination. Failing that, he’d settle for time to let his head wrap around everything he’d been forced to feel in heady succession, maybe work at how he actually felt about some of it. That was a novel idea.

“Sherlock knows this?” Mycroft’s frown deepened.

Greg snorted. Mycroft tilted his head, acknowledging the superfluous nature of the question.

Absently Mycroft turned the rabbit, long fingers occupying themselves while his genius mind worked. He’d lost the softness he’d worn waking up, and Greg wasn’t actually sure whether he was dealing with Mycroft or the British Government, it could so easily be either.

“Bed.” Mycroft held out a hand.

Greg blinked at him in surprise.

“You said you were tired.” Mycroft reminded him crisply.

The Government then, Greg decided. Mycroft was wondering through his mind working, leaving enough awareness behind to run his body on autopilot. He’d have preferred Mycroft, _not_ his My, by far. The fact that at one mention of Moriarty’s name the Omega had mentally run off left him feeling small and abandoned, probably close to how John had felt through most of the day.

His hurt must have shown quite clearly on his face, because Mycroft’s expression softened, some more of him coming back into the figure in front.

“Come on, Gregory. You were trying to get me there earlier.”

“You were asleep,” Greg pointed out. “Will you be joining me?”

Mycroft hesitated.

“I should start looking into-”

Greg tuned it out. Mycroft was going to go be the Government and work on the Moriarty issue. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Hurt, he thought, but mostly he just felt numb. It wasn’t like it mattered. Greg wasn’t even sure why he was getting worked up about it in his mind, though he was. Mycroft frequently worked later than Greg, it wasn’t new.

“Right, fine.” He said, not caring whether or not Mycroft was still speaking. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’ll be in in a couple of hours.” Mycroft grabbed Greg’s hand as he went passed and gently squeezed the weather roughened skin.

Platitudes and reassurances, Greg thought. An old married couple already.

Straight on the heels of that thought came ‘I wonder when one of us is going to start having an affair.’

No, he violently rejected the thought, but it made his tone shaper than it otherwise would have been.

“Do as you want, Mycroft.”

He tugged his hand free with just the smallest amount of effort, Mycroft letting it fall, but then that was the difference between them, wasn’t it? The fundamental fact of their relationship: he chased after Mycroft, Mycroft didn’t chase after him.

He turned and headed into the bedroom, waiting until he was far enough away from Mycroft to mutter “You always do anyway” under his breath.

He fell into bed and lay there, staring at the dark shapes and wondering at what point in the day he’d become so bleak. The conference room, his office, the crime scene, here, Baker Street, here; there were so many contenders. Had he felt this way through all of them, hidden by the more violent emotions, or was it cumulative?

He rolled onto his back with a sigh and tucked a hand under his head, staring up at the ceiling he couldn’t see. Maybe he needed to find someone to talk to about it, a professional. Not the stuff with Mycroft, the feelings of inadequacy and abandonment he’d been having since everyone had run out of the Yard that morning.

Had they been going on longer? He didn’t know.

Wasn’t that a sign of depression or something? Only what was the point when he couldn’t say anything important and anything he did say Mycroft could read at will without even a second thought?

No, that wouldn’t work. John, it was going to have to be John, because humiliating as it was to have his friend look at him and know all the black parts of his soul, at least John already knew the bigger picture and would tell Mycroft to go fuck himself before telling him anything, no matter what Mycroft waved in his face.

It would have to be John. Greg already wanted to apologise for shoving more shit on him, but maybe they could get drunk and he could listen to John for a bit as well. Fair exchange. Help each other.

Decision made, he tried to push the rest of his thoughts away so he could sleep. Some of them went easily – all the good ones. The bad ones – his worry about Sherlock and Moriarty, Sherlock and Mycroft’s past, he and Mycroft and being ‘anoldmarriedcoupleisn’tanaffairnexthealreadyhasagorgeousfuckingsecretaryhe’sfuckedbefore’ – he had to wrestle back into the box.

Sherlock would not go after Moriarty. John would stop him. He wouldn’t upset John.

Sherlock and Mycroft’s past was shit. It was also past. They’d deal with it a bit at a time.

He and Mycroft were not going to make things worse between them. There would be no affairs. Friendship, fidelity, family. That was all, but also all of it and frankly more than he’d had in his last marriage.

He slammed the lid closed and tried to convince himself that he was trying to sleep and that he wasn’t timing Mycroft.

It was more than a couple of hours, but he did come to bed.

In the end.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Hi everyone,

I just wanted to let you know that I am not dead and that this is not abandoned. I know it's been forever since I updated, but RL is just kicking my arse at the moment. The company I work for is undergoing revaluation/restructure/merger/sale all at once and needless to say, the hours are killing any and all creative drive. Things are still coming! Just.... slowly.....

Thanks to everyone who has left comments saying they hope I update soon. Each one really does help get me a little closer to having something to post. 

Melody

xx

**Author's Note:**

> My Journal if you want to PM or have a conversation in the Comments. I try not to reply to much on AO3 because people use number of comments to filter stories, but I will happily hold discussions on LJ for as long as you care to respond. Still working out how to do a masterlist for the fics, then I'll add the link to that too if you find it useful.
> 
> http://melody-in-time.livejournal.com/
> 
> Encyclopaedia of life Index: All updates and pictures will be linked back to here  
> http://melody-in-time.livejournal.com/13388.html


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